In the century before the return of Nightmare Moon, Tor Razorwing, aristocratic senator of the Confederacy of the Gryphons, commits an act of kindness that breaks social barriers, and unknowingly strikes upon the foundation of a fragile social order.
Tradition. Status. Two words that resonate in the daily lives of the noble gryphons, high and low. For hundreds of years, the hierarchy has reigned supreme, from family, clan, to state. This is how it has been, how it is, and how it will remain.
However...
In the century before the return of Nightmare Moon, Tor Razorwing, aristocratic senator of the Confederacy of the Gryphons, commits an act of kindness that breaks social barriers, and unknowingly strikes upon the foundation of a fragile social order. Between the duties of the upper class to uphold tradition and the need to pursue the freedom of his people, a crisis boils beneath a facade of righteousness and order.
Tor’s world balances on the tip of an upturned mountain - Will it right itself back into the seat of stability? Or will it tumble, and with it, break into a world that dares to find new meaning?
The concert hall burst open as a swarm of gryphons escaped between its marble pillars. An upper class air graced the mid-summer's night, abuzz with the night’s performance. There were two gryphons in particular who had no trouble navigating the crowd. They were surrounded in admirers, enamored by the breathtaking concert.
“By the Six, you’d think that we’d have never heard of strings before! Oh, pluck me if I’m wrong, but I couldn’t get over that ensemble,” Tor Razorwing said, carrying a chipper tone. He kept a gold hilted saber steady as he descended the hall’s red carpeted steps.
“My Lord Razorwing,” an eagless began. “What did you think of that second piece? I hear it was old tune, composed by Jovan Bluefeathers!”
“Ah, Bluefeathers!" Tor nodded knowingly. "I recognized the Call of Thunder before the first stroke was made. For pacifists, these ponies know how to channel the warrior poet's bombast. I commend the Canterlot Philharmonic.”
“Were there any other members of the senate here for the ensemble as well?” Another jovial gryphon asked.
“Not that I know of,” Tor replied. “But my old friend Gareth Stonetalon snuck in during intermission. Sneaky little fledgling, eh?” He wrapped his right arm around said friend, who was blushing profusely. He stood erect on his back paws like Tor, with a silver saber encased by a free talon.
“Tor, you wolf,” Gareth whispered, anxious. “You know I don’t like talking with the plebs.”
Tor flashed a brotherly sort of smile. “Come now, Gareth, these are your people! Businessgryphs also come to the theater on their spare time — There, lad!" Tor gestured ahead. "There stands a tiercel of note.”
Tor's free talon pointed to a greying gryphon, surprised to be addressed. He was wearing plain colored cotton, opposed to the bright colored silks Tor and Gareth were wearing. Gareth scanned him intently with a snarl.
“No linen, no blade? By the Six,” he quietly grimaced, narrowing his scarlet eyes. Tor lost his smile as the elder tiercel bowed his head in shame. To escape the awkwardness, he forced Gareth along.
They and the group reached the bottom of the carpeted steps, only to be met with more questions. Tor noticed they took care to not direct them to Gareth. Gareth crossed his arms and pulled his wings close, which puzzled Tor.
Come now, Gareth, Tor mentally admonished. Don't act like this tonight.
“—She there?”
Tor blinked and shook his head, being pulled back to reality. “Er, uh,” he stumbled. He turned to the tiercel who addressed him with a soft smile. “I’m sorry, I missed that.”
“Apologies, My Lord," the tiercel said. “I was told by a friend of a friend that Celestia graced the senate chambers this afternoon. Is this true?”
“Celestia? The one with the rainbow mane?” Tor wiggled his fingers close to his head to clarify, mimicking her hair. The tiercel nodded. “No, she’s joining session tomorrow. I think you might've mistaken her with Golden Sunshine, her personal student.”
“What is she —”
“I’m tired of your prattling!” Gareth shouted. He extended his silvery wings full length with an angry scowl. "Leave us be!" He clenched his saber’s hilt, and the group took the hint. In silence, Gareth padded away, grumbling under his breath. Tor gave chase, waiting before the group was well behind before he spoke.
“What’s your problem?” He challenged, feeling his anger boil. “Does being elected to the forum just give you an excuse to be an ass?”
“I know my place here, Tor. Fraternization with the lower classes, bah! Six help us!” Gareth turned away again, down Cobb Lane, leading deeper into the city. Tor followed suit, unfurling his brown wings to wrap around his chest, forming a makeshift cloak.
"My place is to be an official, Gareth," Tor continued. "Not to be some some damn-fool aristocrat.”
“Oh, please,” Gareth rebutted as he turned around. He stared daggers into Tor from under his brow. “This isn’t grade school. Equality lost it’s relevance when you grabbed your diploma.”
Tor crossed his arms under the cloak as a skeptical brow shot up. “A lord can actually do his job, you know.”
“Bah!" Gareth dismissed. "Your military service apparently did nothing to dampen your idealism.”
“Maybe if you joined me instead of going into the bureaucracy — like I kept asking you — perhaps I might’ve rubbed off on you.”
A scoff came from Gareth’s beak, killing the current discussion. The two continued their walk in silence, taking in the night. Tor looked around. He and Gareth were perusing the more bourgeois portion of the sixth tier of the city, where the lanes were cleaner and the police were common. Bronze gas lamps dotted the cobblestone street, inlayed with curving pieces of brass up the poles. They shimmered like stars, the only time they stood out during the day; If the sun was up, they would be put to shame by the tall, painted stone buildings around, augmented by brick and marble.
For all of the ferocity of the evening, Tor still smiled. The storm from before the concert had let up, and the breeze cooled the pads of his paws, damp from the cobbles.
Gareth looked over to him, a brow raised. “What pulled the blade from your chest, eh?”
Tor shrugged idly. “It’s just a lovely night, is all. I mean, look around us. The eleven tiers of Stoneanchor, all ablaze tonight." He smiled cheekily. "Were you an eagless, I’d be taking you to Valorum Park. Mmm, darling, the things you'd see.”
Gareth laughed, playfully punching Tor. “A date? On tier five? With you? You'd have to break my wings first. Granted, it would give you an excuse to not fly."
“Oh, you know me so well," Tor admitted.
“I know how privy you are to walking. If we were in the air, we wouldn’t get any privacy.” Gareth raised his brows suggestively.
“Wanting privacy, are we?” Tor asked not-so-innocently, extending his right wing to encompass Gareth. “I didn’t know you were so forward, Gareth darling.”
Gareth pushed to escape the embrace, chuckling. “If you weren’t a friend, I’d be knocking you back so far you’d be an egg.” He brandished a fist to emphasize.
"Come now,” Tor exclaimed, smiling. “Have some peace! We just saw ponies perform for us — the least you can do is let me remember their percussion section one last time before killing me.”
“Oh..." Gareth rolled his eyes, carefully considering mercy. "I suppose. This time. How long should I wait?”
“Let me get back to you on that.”
A sudden, violent crash rang ahead them. Tor extended an arm across Gareth’s chest. His ears perked at the exchange of voices, barely decipherable. But what was obvious was more racket.
“Wha— what in the Six?” Gareth queried, his voice shaking.
Tor shook his head, placing a talon’s digit to his beak. He collapsed his wings, exposing his blue silk coat. A more violent crash! echoed from the alleyway, momentarily stopping Tor. With a deep breath, he approached, staring in from the corner of a building. Unconsciously, he kept a grip on his saber, idly fingering its leather grip. His heartbeat pulsed wildly as he observed the commotion mere feet from where he stood. Gareth hesitantly joined him.
“C’mon, eyas,” Tor heard. Male, he noted. “Give me what I paid for!” Another bang, followed by a rubbish bin rolling out onto the lane.
“N-no! I won't, and I'll say it again! No!” This voice was female.
“Leave them be, Tor,” Gareth whispered, grasping at the cuff of Tor's coat. “It—it’s something they can handle on their—their own.”
“We can't just leave them. Are you insane?” Tor narrowed his eyes at his friend’s cowardice. At this point, maybe I should be asking myself the same question.
“No more than you!” More crashes rang out, followed by a terrified yelp. Tor clutched the hilt harder, trying to overcome his hesitation to move. His feathers slowly began fluffing stiff.
“This is your last chance, eyas!" The tiercel yelled, his words slurred. "Don’t make me draw this shiny blade! Fifty pieces is more than enough for a night.”
With a deep breath, Tor pushed himself mentally and turned the corner. It was as he imagined: A dirty tiercel with his talons brandished, unsuccessfully negotiating for what concealed itself underneath a ragged coat. The cornered eagless he pursued kept a dented garbage bin between them as a last line of defense. Tor’s shadow obscured the amber light that shone down the passage, which took the attention of the agitated gryphon.
“Oi! You mind, mate?" The attacker stumbled about to face Tor. "I’ve got business with the eagless 'ere,” By the way he moved, Tor guessed he had a little too much wine this evening.
Tor mustered his speaking voice, normally reserved for the senate chambers: “I would suggest you leave her be.” Gareth joined him, only to keep himself partially obscured by Tor’s mass. Tor kept his gaze upon the drunk, and tightened his grip. "Walk away, and we won't have to worry about any consequences."
“Tor, you mad tiercel, what do you think you're doing?” Gareth demanded, pointing an accusing talon at the eagless. “You’re defending a blazed!” Tor slid his focus from the male to the female, confirming Gareth's claim. Though her overcoat hid the rest of her body, the dyed feathers atop her head could not be ignored. Bright red, as the fires in his hearth: The sign of an outcast of society.
“I know,” Tor admitted after a moment, growing annoyed with his friend’s gutlessness. He white knuckled his grip, wondering whether to strike Gareth or the agitating tiercel.
"She’s no use to the world," Gareth arrogantly affirmed. "Let her suffer. At least he” — Gareth shifted his talon to the drunk — “has status.”
“S’right,” the drunk chimed in. “So, let me have her" — he raised his talons, balled into fists — "and I won’t knock my mates on you, right?” Tor advanced on the tiercel. His brow furrowed, shadowing his gold irises. He suppressed wayward thought and shut out the rest of the world, hyperfocusing on the drunk. He became cognizant of the slight echo of his steps, and could smell a terrible stench that was previously just outside of his senses. The hilt cradled in his talon lost its weight.
He drew the sword, the blade dull song singing as it escaped the cobalt prison, sliding past slicked leather. The sharpened steel glowed from the glare of lamplight. A sense of power coursed through him, like a tsunami crashing through the deep ocean. He smiled internally, but kept his face stony like the grey walls around him. The drunk, suddenly realizing he was in over his head, fumbled to pull his small sword from it’s patchy, lacquer scabbard. His blade’s copper cross guard caught Tor's attention.
“I would think an apprentice would be at the shop, not gallivanting about looking for an easy lay,” Tor remarked, taking a defensive stance. “Now, I want you to leave, before your master finds you lame.”
“Say that when you meet the Six!" The drunk cried, stumbling forward. Losing his footing, he made a swipe at the air, completely missing Tor. Tor took a step back briefly, the sword passing close to his beak. His heart beat even faster as the blade's whistling echoed in his head. With the drunk's extension, Tor took the chance to grab the talon holding the blade with his left.
Now with an unusable arm and back exposed to Tor, the apprentice shifted himself to face him. Using the opportunity to swipe at Tor with his talon, he crossed his disabled arm, landing a successful strike on the left side of Tor's face. In furious response, Tor slammed his right claw, encased in the saber’s golden baskethilt, straight to the side of the drunken gryphon’s head. The drunk's surprised shout was drowned by a successive gurgle, ending in silence with a satisfactory wet slap to the floor. A dribble of red slowly drooled from his maw.
Gareth's tapping paws echoed behind Tor. With a deep breath to ease his nerves, Tor skillfully wiped down the blade with a handkerchief from his pocket. After the quick swipe, he slid the saber back into its deep blue holding.
“Why yes, Gareth," Tor said, not turning about. "I was defending myself! I'm glad you came to give me your support.” He patted the side of his face, inspecting the damage. He winced as he pressed the handkerchief onto the gashes. His feathers slowly calmed themselves, adrenaline easing itself out of his system.
“You fool! You drew the ceremonial blade!" Gareth reprimanded. "The books forbid it!” Tor ignored the warning and shook his head. He approached the blazed and extended his free talon to her. Taking it, the white feathered girl pulled herself up, only to keep on four limbs. Choosing to remain silent, she avoided Tor’s gaze and stared at the floor.
“I am Lord Tor Razorwing,” Tor proclaimed, bowing to the girl. “I hope you’re alright, Miss...?” She remained silent, keeping her gaze down. He was surprised and impressed at her apparently calm demeanor. An obedient outcast, Tor grimly mused. She knows her place well.
“You have my permission to reply.”
Without looking up, she responded: “Rovena.”
“Rovena...?” He let the name drag on, expecting more. Gareth approached the two, expressing his disgust.
“Tor,” he reminded. “Her kind have no family names.”
“Yes,” Tor said, “but—”
“But nothing. Let’s leave. We need you patched up before tomorrow’s session.” Tor hesitated, but then nodded in agreement. As disgusted as he was with the eagerness to leave the alley, he was right. Before turning to leave, he reached into his purse and pulled a coin from within, emblazoned with the Confederate crest: a sword and quill. He held it out for Rovena to receive. The coin lightly fluctuated in his digits as his pulse slowly decreased.
“A token, Rovena,” Tor offered. She remained still as stone, still eying the ground. He nearly grabbed the girl’s talon before remembering her stalwart obedience. Gently: “Take it, please.”
She barely looked up, gazing through the feathers that peaked over her brow. She then lifted a hesitant talon, grimy from touching the wet floor, and gingerly grasped the golden token. A barely audible gasp emerged from her beak as she inspected the piece. Tor cracked a grin.
“C’mon, Tor!” Gareth said impatiently, motioning with a wing. “Enough with her, we need to go!”
"Have a safe journey home, Miss Rovena," Tor said in farewell, bowing. She kept her gaze down. Not to the floor, but to the small gift. Tor turned about, rushing back to Gareth's side. Gareth stayed silent until they turned out from the alley.
“Absolutely impossible to go anywhere with you, Razorwing,” Gareth lamented as they turned the corner. “I mean, really. Drawing blade? You know we’re not allowed to use the sabers in combat. It’s against tradition. And what’d you give her? A sovereign? That’s worth a hundred pieces!”
“Were you in my position,” Tor retorted, curling a fist out of Gareth's sight. “You would’ve done the same.”
“Were I in your position, I’d have left her behind and reminded her she’s trash.” Tor glared in reponse. Gareth continued: “I mean, that was a perfect place for the two to confront each other, in a garbage dump!” He laughed heartily for a few moments. A few moments too long, Tor believed, for he suddenly took his other talon to solidly backhand Gareth. Gareth’s eyes widened in shock as he landed on the ground.
“Tor!”
“Watch your tongue, fledgling,” Tor demanded, pointing a digit at him. His blood rushed through his veins again. “I’m growing tired of your attitude!”
“I-I-I’m sorry, Tor,” he stammered. “I won’t—”
“You won’t what, loosen your beak so quickly next time? Is this how you will use status? Fine, then I will fall to your level: I am above you, listen to me! You will not unleash your incessant whining around me.” Gareth began to stand, avoiding Tor's gaze.
Tor lowered his volume, but still dug in the heel: “To even put status above the well-being of another gryphon! Absolutely disgraceful.”
“It’s only tradition, Tor, you know that!” Gareth pleaded.
“Tradition be damned!” Tor yelled, thrusting his arm out in a waving motion, as if to disown the sacred acts. His voice bellowed down the streets like a shockwave.
Gareth looked offended as his voice began to rise, after a prolonged moment, albeit slowly and nervously. “Burn the books!”
“Burn them? Then, I will break tradition. Is it so important to you, or should I remind you of your own low birth?” Gareth grew silent again as Tor’s acidic words soaked in. He tried to form words to counter, but instead stammered an unintelligible sentence. Tor simply crossed his arms, scowling. Gareth looked from the ground to the Tor’s eyes, internally conflicted.
"Were this another life," Tor finished, "you'd still be wallowing in your father's fields." The two stared at each other in silence, Tor's voice still echoing down the street. Tor was about to continue to walk before Gareth spoke up again:
“Six take you." He then turned around toward the rising tiers of the city, unfurled his wings, and lifted off.
Back to your friends on the eighth tier, Tor thought. I'm sure they'll coddle you.
Tor cursed under his breath, suddenly becoming aware of the blood dripping onto his coat. He sighed, defeated, subsequently reapplying his handkerchief. He grimaced at the sight, still wondering why he hadn't properly taken care of it yet. However, something else caught his eye: A bright, red bunch of feathers on top of a delicate eagless, standing on all fours. He hadn’t noticed her small figure before, now illuminated by the amber light of the bronze lamps.
However, what had him surprised first was her motion, or lack thereof. Her head was not bowed, and he immediately made eye contact with her, with glowing blue eyes. Blinking in curiosity, he saw her say something to him, though oh-so faint, before turning the other direction.
“...And let it be known that the trade agreement put forth by the forum is absolutely intolerable!” A puffy-chested lord paced across the senate floor, his wings unfurled and his arms outstretched.
He began to slap his talons together to emphasize his next point. “Not only is it clearly imbalanced out of our favor, but the zebra believe they can take what they want from our gold reserves — and our iron! An absolute disgrace!” A roar of agreement came from various seats in the house.
“Nonsense!” A large eagless made her way down a set of steps onto the floor. Her wings unfurled, and glittered under the sunlight streaming through the round skylight. She looked majestic while stepping onto the cool colored mosaic floor, the centerpiece of the chambers. “The zebra are in good standing with the Confederacy! Think of the benefits they can bring to us! Our exports haven’t been in such demand in years! To even grace the savannas of the zebra with the sword and quill would be a blessing sent from the Six! Imagine the wealth, imagine how many noble gryphs we’d support from this deal!” More shouts came in support of her, starting a shouting match. The cries echoed off of the pillars surrounding the round chamber.
“By the Six, Gawydna,” Tor groaned, cradling his head in his talon. He turned to Gawydna, at his side. “How long are we going to be talking about this trade agreement? It feels like it’s been ages.”
"I have no idea," she replied with a chuckle. "But it looks like Maia is growing tired, too.” Tor looked across the hall towards the seat of the consul, Maia Highwind. On her flanks were the guests of honor: the Princess Celestia on her right, and Celestia's student to her left.
“To come at a time like this!” Tor toyed with a quill in its inkwell, frustrated. “It's embarrassing.”
“Well, we do have the say on international matters,” Gawydna said. "Even if she weren't here, we'd still have to deal with it."
“Send it back to the forum and have them tweak it, we have more important issues to discuss.”
Gawydna placed a friendly talon on his shoulder, slightly ruffling Tor's black senatorial banyan. “Don’t worry about it. Something tells me the consul is on your side...” A terrible crack of a gavel rang out in the chamber. The senate quieted as they looked to the consul’s seat.
“Clearly we have reached an impasse,” Maia boisterously proclaimed, standing from her seat. “I move to pass this back to the forum. We will break for recess, and will reconvene in the morning.” A general murmur of agreement washed over the senate.
“Aeristolice,” she asked, an ancient word of agreement. The phrase was echoed around the chamber. Maia struck the gavel down again, letting the senate leave their places.
“Thank you," Tor murmured, relieved. As he stood, he was accompanied by Gawydna,
“As a Razorwing, I would think you’d be more accustomed to such violent exchanges,” she commented, adjusting a bundle of books under her arm.
“Of a sort,” he replied, chuckling. “I’m accustomed to brandishing sharpened steel on our enemies, not using a sharpened tongue on my comrades. A bit of a learning curve.” Gawydna giggled.
“I hear steel could be a thing of the past,” she segued, digging through her books. "Very interesting reading I think you'd like to see."
Tor harrumphed. “What could be better than steel?” Gawydna pulled a small pamphlet from her books, with some effort to retrieve it between a couple of particularly heavy volumes. Opening it up and flipping through with a thumb, she stopped on a page showing what looked like a tube caressed by a plank of wood.
“What kind of weapon is this?" Tor snickered, glossing over the page. "If I wanted a crossbow without its mechanism, I’d rip the laithe off and be done with it!”
“You’d be surprised, Tor,” Gawdyna replied, raising her brow. “There’s a demonstration soon, it might be worth checking out.”
“I might go just so I can laugh.” The two continued up the marble stairs of the senate chambers, exiting through the central arch that served as the main entrance. Tor looked about after they passed through, moving past the crowd of senators hanging out outside.
“I must excuse myself, Gawd — I've a matter to ask the Consul about." He flashed a quick smile. "Let's grab lunch?” Before Gawydna could respond, Tor bound away. He walked around the rotunda that encapsulated the senate chambers. His shadow passed by high, white columns holding up the domed ceiling. He squeezed his way past a pair of squabbling senators before seeing the entourage that was the princess, her guards, and in the midst of it all, the consul herself.
Tor was taken aback by the princess, which was helped by the elegant party that accompanied her, a living sea of gold. Celestia was obscured by the shadow of a column, but even in darkness, she still shone bright. Tor couldn't help but be encapsulated by her elegance.
“My Consul,” he exclaimed, mentally shaking himself straight. He crossed an arm over his chest in salutation.
“Tor! My friend.” The grey gryphon turned around from talking to the princess, a smile on her beak. Polite as ever, Maia excused herself. She quickly latched her right arm around Tor's, pulling him close.
She kept to a whisper: “The Princess and I have a meeting with Consul Helgar from the forum. I need someone to keep watch over her student.” She shifted her eyes to the smaller pony talking with Celestia.
Tor, though disappointed, nodded and placed a friendly talon on the consul’s shoulder. “Of course, My Consul.”
“She’s a curious one, so keep her eagerness sedated, would you?”
“I'm sure that won't be too much of a problem, ma'am,” he assured.
"Wonderful." Maia turned her back to Celestia. From behind, Tor saw Maia nod, which in turn garnered a few uttered words from Celestia to her student. Maia's grip loosened as the small, golden colored pony began to trot over.
“And, Tor?” Maia's tone caused Tor to stiffen. “Expect me at your office some time tomorrow. We will have words between us.” She quickly flashed her emerald eyes to Tor’s saber, and then to his golden irises before leaving. He blinked, surprised, trying to clear his mind of worrying thoughts.
The student and Maia passed each other, nodding as they passed. They're so familiar with each other, Tor thought. Are equines more casual in diplomacy? It was normal for dignitaries to have a certain distance from Confederate heads of state, as a sign of respect to their hosts. Here, it was is if they were at a dinner party.
The young mare looked up to Tor with a small smile, to which he returned his own. She was a curious looking pony, with her saddlebags and braided white mane. These features were normal for an equine — what caught Tor's attention was the woven horn that jutted from her head.
Such a curious thing!
“My name is Golden Sunshine, student to Princess Celestia,” Sunshine said, bowing to Tor. “I would love to know your name, sir.”
“Lord Tor Razorwing, Miss. Senator of the Confederacy.” He returned with a bow of his own.
Golden Sunshine held out her left hoof, which forced the towering Tor to kneel. As he bent, he instinctively bumped his sword away with his tail. He clasped the hoof in his left talon, shaking it ever so gently. It was an odd extremity to shake, being so fuzzy and without fingers. Nevertheless, he appreciated her gesture.
It's the wrong talon — Er, hoof, but her heart is in the right place.
“Charmed, Lord Razorwing,” she said, smiling even wider. Her eyes grew wide with a gasp, raising a hoof to her mouth. “Oh, my! Are you alright?”
Tor cradled the left side of his face, forgetting he had bandages there. “Oh, no, no! It’s alright. Nothing a few days won’t fix.” He smiled to assure her.
“What happened?”
“Nothing, really." He shrugged idly. "Just a small scuffle.”
She cocked her head to the side. “This doesn't happen often to a senator, I hope?”
He shrugged again, throwing out a lopsided grin. “Yes, I hope so too.”
“I've never been in a fight like that before — Was it painful?”
“It’s not as bad as it could’ve been.” Tor forced himself up onto his back paws once more, carefully adjusting the saber. Sunshine’s brow raised as she inspected his care for the blade.
“You sure seem to like your sword,” she mused. Tor saw her look around, spying the abundance of curved weaponry hanging about. “Is this normal?"
Tor beckoned Sunshine to join him through the carpeted, alabaster rotunda. “It’s a status symbol we have,” he explained, both pleased and irked at the subject. “Your blade determines your place in life, the same as your cloth. We used to judge armor before we took the quill as our weapon of choice.”
“What do you mean?” She asked. She went in step with Tor, Sunshine bright eyed at the passing officials.
Sedate her curiosity. Tor smiled. Got it. “When we were a more ferocious type, knowing how wealthy you were in the clan determined your place. If your weapon and armor were expensive and better crafted—”
“You were well off,” she interrupted. Sunshine magically pulled a small notepad and charcoal pen from her saddlebags. She jotted down these points on a well-used piece of parchment. Although he was rudely stopped, Tor became further enticed with her magical prowess.
“You’ve quite the archive,” he noted offhandedly.
“Well, I sort of have to, y’know,” Sunshine answered. “Being an equinologist, and all.”
Tor raised a brow. “I'm sorry?”
“An equinologist.” She sighed in annoyance after responding.
A question she is obviously asked frequently, Tor realized.
“I study my people’s history, culture and politics," she continued. "How we came to be is important. In fact, it’s always important.”
He nodded, rubbing the top of a talon’s digit under his beak in thought. “Yes, this is true. Think of something like the Agreement of Veron — it was a very important facet of our history. A cornerstone, really.”
“Oh, please, please, please! Go on!” Sunshine's eyes widened as she looked at him, magically writing a few more notes down. Her tail whipped as wide as the growing smile on her muzzle. Her enthusiasm brought a smirk to Tor's beak.
“Ah, well...” He began, scratching the back of his neck. "It came about as a way to negotiate. It stopped five of the great clans from fighting, helping to establish the senate.”
Sunshine raised a brow, curious. “You have two governing bodies — not to mention you, historically, had eight great clans.”
Tor grunted at her casual parlance, though he was impressed with her knowledge of his history. “Yes, that’s true. But, there’s a reason for that.” Sunshine whipped the pen in circles in the air, eager for more.
“You have the other three clans,” he explained, idly counting them off on his right digits. “They went against the grain, and rejected the Agreement. It was then the merchant guilds of their respective provinces rebelled and acquired their holds.”
“What happened?”
“Money,” he replied, rubbing a thumb and fore-digit together. “It’s easy to buy off a military when you control the clan leader’s trade and finance. Buy a clan leader’s army, and you can remove him with ease.”
Sunshine's smile was bittersweet. “Funny. This has never happened with us before.”
“As I said, we were once very vicious creatures.” Tor gingerly rubbed his cheek.
“We once had three tribes, much like your own.”
“Ah, yes — I'm familiar. After ages of conflict, they came together after understanding they each have their own strengths and weaknesses?" He smirked, challenging: "Doesn’t sound like much of a real conflict, considering you ponies are so peace loving."
Sunshine exhaled sharply through her nostrils, stopping in her tracks. “I bet you’ve never heard of the Battle of Galloping Gorge in the first Era. Two thousand dead, earth ponies and unicorns!”
“Battle of the Flowing Red,” Tor rebutted, a talon raised. “Six thousand dead.”
“Siege of Castle Greymane, eight thousand dead, unicorns against the pegasi.”
“Massacre of the Shrieking Wind, twenty thousand dead. Razorwing clan against the Stormbeaks and Stonetalons.” He paused for dramatic effect, leaned down and smiled darkly. “We won." A mischievous smirk grew on Sunshine's face as Tor stood back up. Tor chuckled, feeling victorious.
“Fair enough,” she admitted, nodding in acquiescence. She looked through her notes briefly before clearing her throat. “So, the forum?” The two continued down the corridor before taking a swift right down a secondary passageway, still carpeted, but walled in dark spruce. It was by no means crowded, but bustling — zebra and gryphons quickly trotted past to their duties.
Tor continued: "It came about to modify the Agreement — they wanted more rights. They also demanded their own committee, which resulted in the forum. They have elected positions and represent the economic side of the Confederacy.”
“Wait, wait, hold up.” She stopped again, shaking her head while extending an outstretched hoof. “What do you mean?”
Tor cocked his head to the side, confused. He extended a talon in her direction. “What do you mean?”
“What are these... ‘rights?’”
“Well, you have the right to speech, the right to self-determination...” He paused momentarily musing on her question. “Do you not have rights?”
Sunshine tapped a hoof to her chin, her brow scowled in deep thought. She mouthed a few things to herself, never audible. Tor had heard of the many freedoms that Celestia gave the ponies of Equestria. It was near a completely free state.
How had she never heard of rights?
“We have, I guess, the right to rule by the Princess...?” Sunshine pursed her lips, trying to find the words.
“Well, what we mean by rights are freedoms guaranteed by the state, which are aside from our innate liberties. Beside those, the merchants demanded economic advancement, something that was not normally practiced in the clanhood. As for social interaction, that’s a different story.” Sunshine was still sporting the perplexed look, continuing her scribe work. She looked slow and methodical at first, but resumed her previous speed, scribbling furiously in the margins. He had no idea how to read her language, but Tor hoped to lead her in the right direction.
“I have someone who you should talk to.” Beckoning Sunshine along, he approached an oaken door at the end of the corridor and gave it a quick rapping. A muffled “Come in,” sounded from inside. Tor grasped the door's golden clasp and slid it aside into its pocket.
A young tiercel sat behind a desk, which itself sat in front of another oaken door. He stood, a silver hilted long blade, not curved, swung from his belt.
“Lord Razorwing,” he began, placing an arm over his chest.
“No need for such formalities, Varren!” Tor said, smiling. “I’m only here for a social call.”
“Oh, of course! Is it just you, or...” Varren looked to Sunshine and back to Tor with a raised brow.
“The mare is with me.”
“Of course, My Lord." The secretary left his desk and tapped on the second door in the room. After a moment, he cracked it open, talking through the space. Varren turned from the crack and gestured to the door. Tor and Sunshine made their way through, closing it behind them.
“Tor, my friend,” the tiercel inside exclaimed, chipper as ever. “Good to see you! And the little miss, how marvelous!” The grey-and-black-peppered lord looked from Tor to Golden Sunshine, smiling from behind his large desk. Sunshine — pulled from her thoughts— scowled.
A nickname to disregard, Tor thought with a smirk.
“My apologies, my dear," Tor's friend continued. "We’re so used to our fellows on four legs being taller.”
Before she could respond, Tor quickly interjected. “Gaius.”
“I mean, you ponies are so short!” He stood from his desk, which obscured half of the massive, obsidian fireplace behind it. “Who would’ve known? I’ve met fledglings taller than ponies like her!”
“Gaius,” Tor called, with more emphasis. Gaius made his way around the desk, grabbing a book and his own charcoal pen. He kneeled in front of Sunshine with wide eyes and a gawking beak, pen at the ready. She took a hesitant step back as his talon hovered above a blank page.
“As much as we know about you, we really don’t keep a lot of biological records of your kind.”
“Gaius Stormbeak!”
Gaius looked up at Tor, his voice innocent. “What, Tor? Can't you keep your voice down for one day?”
“Do you mind?” Tor pointed to Sunshine, trying her best to squeeze through the wall. Gaius backed up, and returned to an upright stance, his sword’s hilt bouncing off of his red skinned book.
“My apologies,” he said bashfully, nodding to Tor, and then to Sunshine.
Tor shook his head and rolled his eyes. “You’re the resident archivist here,” he began. “Do you mind talking to this young mare about—”
“About her history? Oh, my, of course.” Gaius raised a talon’s fore-digit, beginning a matter-of-fact recitation, which felt like it sped by like an over-fueled locomotive. “We have records from all the way back before Celestia’s rule, I’ll have you know. Did you know that we have first talon accounts from gryphon mercenaries in the royal sisters’ army? We have records from the defeat of Discord, the assault on the Crystal Empire... though strangely enough, nothing from the expulsion of Luna.” He chuckled to himself.
“No, Gaius, I mean—”
“But! We do have plenty of works from across the sea. We had a lot of records and documents from the years after the banishment. You won’t believe the amount of books we rescued.”
It was Sunshine’s turn to pipe up. “Rescued?”
“Oh, yes, yes, yes. Many an author escaped the hoof of Celestia during the Purge of the Third —” Gaius stopped himself suddenly, giving the guests mental whiplash. He dropped his talon, eyeing the mare intently. “Oh, goodness.”
“Gaius?” Tor asked.
“Never mind what I said," Gaius whispered urgently, as if he’d mentioned taboo. He dropped the subject quickly, hoping to sweep it under the proverbial rug. Significantly slower than how he’d started, he continued, “Tor, what is it you needed?”
“I, was hoping you’d talk to the mare about the Agreement of Veron more. I don’t know everything and since you’re the archivist —”
“Of course, my friend." Gaius aimed a talon at an empty chair. "Miss, if you could take a seat, I’ll be with you in a moment.” The mare, hesitant, looked to Tor. Tor nodded to her, silently assuring her it was going to be alright. She made her way to a plush seat next to the desk, levitating her saddlebags off. Gaius, however, grabbed his Tor's arm, his grip hanging on for dear life.
“I mentioned the Purge,” he whispered nervously. “Six help me!”
“Don’t worry, my friend,” Tor said, gently patting Gaius' arm. “Just stick to the Agreement, and you’ll be fine. I’ll send word to the consul that she’s in your stead.”
“But, the Purge, Tor. The Purge!”
“Don’t talk about it any more. If anything, she’ll ask Celestia and she’ll keep her away from it. Ponies don’t know about the Purge, and neither shall she. Celestia was very thorough burning that part of her history away.”
“You know the political implications.”
“Then deny it. We’ll be behind you, Six mark my words.” His arm was released as Gaius steadied himself, returning to a chipper tone, even if a facade.
“Now, my dear,” Gaius began, turning around, “About the Agreement...”
Tor arrived at his own office down the hall five minutes afterwards. An uncommon sight welcomed him: there was no gryphon behind the secretary's desk, only a lonely stack of documents. As lonely as it was, he felt it more necessary to deal with his affairs personally — and to give himself more privacy were it ever wanted. It was his sanctuary here in the Spire, the center of government.
The documents felt a little heavy when he retrieved it from the inbound box. Making no mind of it, he passed from the secretary’s chambers into his own, and spread the documents along the top of his large, polished desk. He neatly organized eight papers, and separated the source of the weight from the stack. He smiled as he organized, happy to be away from the bustle outside. Being so isolated gave him a chance to refresh himself and reflect on the day.
Not to mention sip the wine, he mused.
Deciding to nip his curiosity in the bud, he grabbed the bulging, heavy package and expertly cut open the side of the envelope. As a sharpened talon sliced through one of the short sides, a few coins spilled, landing with a metallic plink on his desk. They were as he had suspected: Confederate coinage. He poured the rest out, creating a golden waterfall, spreading about haphazardly. After recovering the bounty, he slowly counted up the pieces, making up...
“Ninety-seven and and a half pieces,” he said aloud. “Now, who in Tartarus would give me such exact change?” He mentally calculated, drawing out the equation in the air with a fore-digit. It was roughly the cost of postage and the envelope, and one more. Looking back into the envelope for a stray coin, he produced a lightly wrinkled sheet of folded parchment.
The missing two fourth-pieces, he realized with a grin.
He unfolded the letter, curious if this was a poor excuse for a bribe, or the wrongly-sent ransom of some poor laborer. He was wrong on both counts:
Lord Tor Razorwing,
I humbly ask for your thanks and forgiveness at my expense. What you did for me was extraordinary, and I am too humbled to accept your offerings to a blazed. I don’t know if the post will allow admittance of my package, but I only did this just to calm my own mind, and hopefully not your own. To see the lamplight grace your steel with such fire sent my heart aflutter; I was no longer feeling my heart race to embrace death, but I was seeing the actions of a lord defend a wretch like me.
I am not accustomed to writing to those above me with my own name adorning the envelope. However, I cannot keep myself from doing so. Thank you for your kindness and generosity, but I don’t need it. That luxury was stripped from my name long ago.
-R
Tor's tail wagged, with a curious smile plastered on his beak.
Of all the letters, he thought. This was the one I least expected! He read it a second time. Then a third, and as his eyes began to dry, a fourth time. The message was a lovely thanks — in fact, a thanks he had never expected. He was surprised at he script used. It was beautiful, flowing.
He put the document down and set it aside for later. He approached the small bar that nestled itself in a corner nearest to the pocket door. Readying a wine glass, he poured a shining blue liquid from a crystalline bottle sitting on the stone counter top. He nipped a bit of it, exhaling with a satisfied smile.
With glass in talon, he returned to his desk. He intricately picked up the first document on the far left side. He read while downing another sip of the booze.
Good morrow, lord. The citizen’s council of the province of — That writing was very profound. Where did she learn— He interrupted his thoughts and chuckled. Now, now, Tor!
— province of Razorhold cordially ask for your attention to be brought up about the dam on the Sickle River. We understand that you are now entertaining the Celestial Principality, however — I mean, think about it! A blazed with that kind of skill in writing! An interesting turn of events. I think she could be a scribe, no? How can— He sighed, frustrated.
His eyes drifted from the page to Rovena's letter, and replaced the official correspondence with it. He handled it lightly as he made his way over to the rubbish bin that situated itself next to the desk. He let his talon hover above the bin’s wide, square opening.
Tor’s arm became stone, letting the clock tick by second by second. But he could not will himself to unclasp Rovena's letter. He rolled his eyes in annoyance, walking back to the desk. The letter found its home within his blank parchment drawer, to be saved for later.
He returned to the the first document, finishing it and its accompanying pages tacked together on the back. He moved on through the second, then the third, losing all sight and mind of the page itself. Coming upon the fourth bit of correspondence, he looked around the desk for his pen, nowhere to be found.
He thoughtlessly pulled on the familiar bronze handle of his parchment drawer. As the light graced the inside, he laid eyes back onto the beautifully scripted letter.
“Six damn it,” he exclaimed, slamming the drawer, shaking the desk.
“Whoa there, my friend," a familiar voice said. Looking ahead, Gaius was leaning on the doorframe with a playful smirk. “Were you thinking of moving a portrait again?”
Tor looked down at the drawer, unamused. “The drawer’s just stuck,” he lied. “When did you get in, I didn't hear you?”
“You didn’t notice the door slide open?” Gaius asked, treading over to Tor’s side of the desk. He casually opened the parchment drawer. Tor gave Gaius a defeated shrug before his ears flopped back in horror as Gaius withdrew the letter.
“Well, well, well! Quite the pretty script,” he said impressed.
“That’s none of your concern,” Tor replied, reaching for the letter.
“Nonsense, this is beautiful! It’s about time you started looking for a secretary.” Tor's ears flipped back up in calm as Gaius put the letter back where it came from.
“Of course,” Tor grabbed his nearly exhausted glass and finished it off. “Thought I could use the help. You know how it is with the summer rush.”
Gaius, without missing a beat: “Is she cute?”
Tor crinkled his brow with suspicion. “How do you know it’s an eagless?”
“Aside from just telling me,” he began, making a circling motion with an idle talon, “the writing is fluid and thin. Delicate and, dare I say — beautiful?”
Tor scoffed.
“Come now, Tor! I read and organize countless writings. I know an eagless’ from a tiercel’s.”
“Aye, that you would,” Tor conceded.
“Now, I know you heard me, you wolf. Is she cute, or no?”
“I have no idea. It’s a blind submission.” Tor sighed, rubbing his temples. He quickly changed topics. “How was Golden Sunshine?”
Gaius guffawed. “Well, I avoided an international incident, which is excellent for me." He idly played with his nails, rubbing a thumb over them. "Keeping on the subject of the Agreement, while avoiding a point of history forbidden to be mentioned? Perfect.”
“I had no doubt.”
“Oh, yes! Curious little thing, she is though — And to imagine this happened over three hours! I’m glad you told Varren to send a message to the consul." He then chortled. "I can only imagine Celestia’s mug if she couldn’t find her student!” Tor blinked, bewildered. He looked up behind him to the old clock resting on the cool marble mantle.
“Six’s name!" He exclaimed, barely believing the time. "it’s been three hours?” Time flies when you're having fun, yes?
Gaius’ black banyan wrinkled as he sat on the desk. “Working hard, eh? You do look rather worn, Tor. I think we should medicate that.”
Tor held up a firm talon. "I don't think that's necessary."
Gaius crossed his arms in a playful pout. “Why not?”
Tor gestured to the parchment around his desk with the talon. “Because I’m busy.”
“Oh, boo hoo.” Gaius approached the bar and inspected the bottles inside. “What’s the worst a hangover could do?”
“I don’t know." Tor gestured idly. "Making a decision on a major trade —”
“By the Six, Tor — Don’t you have anything strong?” Tor raised a brow as Gaius turned in his crouch to expose a dusty old bottle.
Tor rose in his seat. “That’s two hundred year old cognac, you clown! Don't break it, it's good stuff!”
“Maybe for a stuffy old Lord like yourself. You should taste the firewater the plebs have! Now that’s a drink that can call you its own.” After saying this, the good Lord Stormbeak smiled mischievously.
“Gaius,” Tor warned, a twinge of hostility in his voice.
“It’s perfect! Let’s make our way down to the fourth tier! I know a few good bars out there, they know my name.” Tor rolled his eyes. If Gareth knew even half the rumors about Gaius, he’d try and kill him!
“Why should I join you?”
“Because,” Gaius pointed a digit at Tor. “It’s fun. I don’t remember the last time you I got knickered together.”
Tor scowled. “It’s because the last time I did, I groped a waitress and attempted to lock my beak with Paxia, whip of the forum.”
“That was after we left the service, five years ago!" Gaius waved a pulling motion to him. "C’mon, you wolf.”
Tor sat back down, determined to get to work. “You’re not giving me a reason to go.”
“My treat?”
Tor hesitated, his talon hovering over another document. He sighed with a reserved smile. “I better sober up by the time I get home.”
Tor had two more glasses in front of him, both filled with odd colored liquids. He looked to his opponent, Gaius, as he struggled to tip his own over the precipice of his beak. Smiling to himself, Tor caressed his second to last drink.
Honor and Courage, Tor noted. The last virtues. He tapped his talon's fingers on the drink designated Courage. The white, milky substance smelled like a week-old rotting carcass. It was a classic misdirection, however — getting past it called for courage.
After hesitating, he raised the putrid glass to his beak. Before drinking, he looked around — nearly forty gryphons gathered, their talons tight against coin. With a smirk, he recalled their shock as he walked into the bar. Gaius was a regular, but Tor was looked at with suspicion. As soon as the drinking games began however, the hierarchical barriers broke down.
His smirk grew into a smile. Feels like the old days!
Though, Tor's musing was getting too cumbersome, and he could no longer stand the abhorrent stench below his nostrils. He took the plunge and downed the liquid. For braving the bile, his reward was of sweet honey, twinged with the hints of lemon. He cursed himself — I should've saved honor for last.
"Courage," he announced triumphantly. The empty glass joined a line in front of him. Cheers came from his side of the table, shaking the room. On the other side of the table, Gaius was edged on by his supporters with quips of encouragement. He looked indifferent; his dim, blue eyes staring intently at the four drinks he had not touched yet. Gaius dismissed the motivations with an impatient wave.
This stoked Tor's fire. With the odds in his favor, he took up the final glass. He casually inspected it and the turquoise floating within, which shone diamonds within when against the gaslight. Though, Tor could barely focus on them with the drunken haze clouding his vision. He chuckled arrogantly as his eyes shifted from the drink to Gaius.
“You better keep up,” he slurred. “I just might beat you, Oh Mighty... Mighty" — A quick belch escaped him — "Bookkeeper!” Tor's supporters laughed, pounding the table.
Gaius slowly looked up, frowning. He pushed himself up from the table, a sudden silence rippling through the crowd. He carefully grasped a glass with pink inside, one Tor already drank. In a speed that felt like the speed of light, he downed it, gingerly placing the empty glass face down. Tor’s face fell and his ears flopped back in horror.
“Fertility,” Gaius yelled. His crowd began to stir. He grabbed a red colored one and repeated the process.
“Strength!” More murmurs grew to a din. Gaius snatched an emerald colored drink.
“Honor!” The crowd shouted in unison, chanting his name. Their talons slammed the table, and hooves struck the floor. They were even. Tor's beak hung agape, disbelieving. Under his feathers, he felt heat on his cheeks.
This archivist will not take my victory, I swear to the Six! Tor balled a fist and stared daggers into Gaius. He had to beat the fifth battalion's Virtues drinking champion!
It was a standoff — in the intoxicated mind — of epic proportions, amplified after Tor rose from his seat, iliciting an excited muttering from the crowd. The two Lords took their glasses and made eye contact, lightly bowing their talons in a makeshift salute. After moments of hesitation, Tor took the initiative. To him, it was a trifle. He already had the atrocious Courage before Gaius, and took Strength, which took for it’s namesake; It was the hardest to down. It was red, harsh, and a regretful decision.
It stung like a thousand scorpion stings as it rushed down Tor's throat. As it reached his gut, he squeezed his eyes shut, his stomach gurgling and groaning. By the time his eyes opened again and hazily refocused, Gaius calmly placed his empty glass onto the table.
“Courage!” A great boom of cheers exploded from his supporters, who clapped his back and shook his shoulders in congratulations. Six drinks, four of which downed in just a few seconds.
Tor had to give it to his friend — He deserved the title of Champion. He conceded defeat with a flourished bow and sat down, smiling as his supporters patted him on the back. Around him, the loving sound of clinking coin was passed about.
“You’re better than the last tiercel who came after me, Tor,” Gaius said, casually inspecting the nails of his right talon. “You aren’t trying to kill me.”
Tor shrugged. “When I finally beat you at Virtues, I’ll think about it.” The two laughed, inspiring a contagious guffaw among the rest of the audience.
The drinks carried on for another hour before the two left the bar, amidst the voices trailing their farewells to them. The two stumbled through cool air and the fresh puddles that dotted the street, illuminated by amber lamplight. The rains this evening finally stopped, creating the cool and drowned walkways of the fourth tier. The street was fuzzy to Tor, partially through his intoxication, but also with the light haze that formed in the night.
Looking up, the rigid, carved nature of the city’s tiers swam together, creating the illusion of a gigantic, towering mountain. It’s visage made it lonely in the summer’s night, lightly aglow from the plethora of lights burning in unseen windows.
Gaius interrupted Tor’s gawking as he giggled endlessly, resting his head on Tor’s shoulder. Tor reared his head back, cocking a brow.
“What’s so funny?” He asked, starting to smile.
Gaius lazily pointed past Tor with a uneven talon. “You and your skywatching!”
Tor extended his arms in front of him, making circular motions. “It’s all... smooth, and whatnot.”
“Poetic.” Gaius nodded sagely.
“Whatever!” Tor nudged Gaius off his shoulder, making Gaius stumble through a puddle, splashing water everywhere. Including their clothes.
“Gah,” Tor exclaimed, squeezing water from his coat. "Look what you did, Gaius! Now my trousers are wet!”
“It’s what what you deserve!" Gaius gently pushed Tor playfully, which caused Tor to splash into a puddle of his own. "Pushing your friend about is so uncouth, I’ll have you know.”
“Uncouth is wet pants.”
“You and your pants!” Gaius waved away, rolling his eyes.
“But... they’re wet.”
“Don’t you have anything else to think about?” Gaius smiled as he finished the sentence.
“Yes, like, well,” Tor replied, lazily looking about his person. “My waistcoat.”
Gaius swiftly clapped his right talon against his forehead, a wet smack echoing. As heavy as they both drank, Gaius was far more sober.
Either Gaius has the gut of iron, Tor thought. Or I just don't have the fortitude I used to have! He couldn’t tell. In his mind, it felt like Gaius should be the leader of his ragtag party.
“Should I be thinking of something else?” Tor asked, slurred.
Gaius returned to Tor’s side, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Oh, yes, my friend. Something much more grandiose.” Tor pointed upwards to the hazy mountain. Shaking his head, Gaius forced the talon in another direction, on this level of the city. Tor fought against Gaius’ push of his talon and took it as a joke, giggling.
“Six take you, Tor,” Gaius yelled. A moment passed before he could control Tor, revealing a new location: It was sultry compared to the plebeian bar; An aura of sexuality lingered in the air.
Through the fog, it looked very plain. It was obscured, save for the lamp illuminating it’s swinging sign: A circular wooden plaque painted deep red with the words, The Golden Mask adorned round its metal borders, ironically embossed in glittering brass. A mask was painted in the center, it fanciful with golds and reds.
Tor grunted.
“Nonsense,” Gaius reassured, taking the grunt as an actual response. He nudged Tor. “It’s a wondrous place to just relax.”
“But, we just did, Gaius.”
"That is correct." Gaius jutted a finger upwards matter-of-factly. "But the bar didn’t have dancing girls.”
Tor, out of sheer embarrassment, would normally resist walking into such an establishment. But considering the circumstances, he reasoned with himself to take a peek. Relaying his decision, Gaius chuckled, the fierce smell of liquor on his breath.
Gaius, paused before the door, offering his friend passage with a dramatic bow. Accepting the proposition, Tor nonchalantly slid the door aside into it’s pocket. It unceremoniously revealed the Golden Mask’s new guests with a heavy slam. He looked back to Gaius, covering his beak to suppress a laugh. Gaius smiled and shook his head, and pushed Tor into the dark, red hallway inside.
The difference from the outside world was striking, like the quenching of a hot blade into a barrel of oil. The cool moisture of the outside vanished as the warm embrace of smoke wrapped itself around them. The incense was as intoxicating as their foray at the bar. The smell of the wet cobbles was overtaken by the scent of rose, encouraging sobriety with each breath. They emerged from the hall into an expansive room, filled with pillows, burners, drapes and tables, not to mention the numerous gryphons and zebra enjoying the night.
The two approached an idle eagless, the madame, lounging behind a counter top close to the hall, entertaining a flushed zebra patron. She was, at first, oblivious of her new patrons, standing on her back paws and giggling with a steaming cup in her talons. Taking notice of Tor and Gaius, she quickly fell onto all fours, shooing the guest away. She flashed a grin while her tail swayed fast behind her. Lords meant a hefty profit.
“Milords." She addressed them with a sing-song, rolling accent, pronouncing words different to the senators' upper crust received pronunciation. “Welcome to the Golden Mask. I hope we can accommodate yer needs tonigh'?”
“Oh, yes,” Gaius replied, steadying himself against the counter. “I want a nice place to lounge and enjoy myself. Something very cushy.”
The madame looked to Tor. “And ye, milord?”
Tor was too distracted by the room. The dimmed, hazy lights, the wafting smoke of the incense, the gentle plucking of the music —
“Tor!” Gaius said, shaking Tor's shoulder.
Tor shook his head, pulled back into reality. "I'll, ah, take the same." He idly loosened the cravat around his neck.
“Excellent, milords.” The madame gestured ahead of her, and the two joined.
They were led through a maze of pillows, navigating it made easy by the madame. The whole room —the size of a small warehouse — was bathed red, much like the hallway, augmented with golds. Draperies separating viewing spaces were sheer, adding to the mystical aura of the room. Daises and tables were dogpiled with cushions of all shapes and sizes. Mostly, tiercels and stallions sat on them, while eaglesses danced to the sitar’s strum. Briefly, everyone kept bewildered eyes on the senators.
They were given a choice spot in a discreet corner, taking a seat with the absurd amount auburn and orange plush pillows pushed against a wood-paneled wall. An ornate hardwood dais stood before the cushions. Tor was bewitched by the extravagance. It was such overkill — Not even my apartment is so over the top!
“This is so odd,” he commented after Gaius finished talking to the madame.
Gaius raised a brow. “What do you mean?”
Tor motioned with a talon. “This. All of this.”
Gaius chuckled. “Well, what can I say? The plebs know how to enjoy vice! The music, the dancers" — he played with the tassels of a comfy pillow — "and the cushions! Much better than a formal party hosted by a Lionheart.”
“A who?”
Gaius put a thoughtful digit to his beak, sporting a sly smile. “Honestly, Tor, you need to visit my hold one of these days — He’s a minor noble in my jurisdiction. He likes to hire guild companions and strut around like a ladies tiercel." He chuckled darkly. "Pretty sure Gareth does that occasionally...”
Tor's ears went flat with a scowl. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing!” Gaius spied the madame coming back, and he released a thankful sigh. The madame was toting a silver tray with a teapot and cups. She was joined by two younger eaglesses, flanking her side. A nondescript tiercel sneaked behind the dais with a sitar bouncing off his back. The eaglesses bowed in unison, with the madame balancing the tray expertly as she went down. Unlike the madame, the two girls were dressed in loose bedlahs with masks covering their faces, all colored in cool blues and greens. Tor noticed most of the dancers had this uniform, in various amounts of modesty.
“I present Lilith and Stone,” The madame extended her free arm sideways, showcasing the two. They bowed again, this time, Tor noticing the red hot headfeathers of the one who was known as Stone. The two gracefully took to the dais, and after the sitar began to rumble its haunting chords, they began to dance. Their movements were matched with their loose cloth flowing in tow, creating a visual representation of wind and water. It became more so when the two simultaneously flipped out fans in each of their talons.
Tor relaxed, keeping an eye on Stone. She was shorter than Lilith to her side, though far more elegant. He could barely make out blue orbs piercing at him from behind her white mask. Though her striking eyes scrutinized him, Tor felt at ease.
Though they danced in erotic display, Tor was not aroused, not while being under the proverbial microscope. Gaius, however, was quite engaged, doe-eyed to Lilith’s silky-smooth performance.
One more notch on Gaius' bedpost, Tor mused.
Gaius lost his concentration on Lilith when the madame poured their drinks. She graciously distributed the ornate little cups, adorned with painted flowers and butterflies. Tor put his nostrils near the rim of his, giving it a quick whiff. He recoiled as the steaming liquid proved too strong for his senses.
“By the Six!” He swore. Gaius and Lilith giggled.
“It’s just a little melah, Tor,” Gaius replied, casually nursing the drink. “A little fermented tea never hurt anyone.”
“Stronger than any melah I've ever had!” He took a pensive sip of the dark liquid, blinking the tears out of his eyes.
“As it should be!" Gaius quickly down his fearlessly and poured another. "Did you know the Serpent loved his melah?”
Tor nearly choked on his second sip. “What?! General Highwind? That old sod?”
“Oh, yeah,” Gaius smiled wide. Tor finished coughing and looked up at the two dancers. Lilith kept on her own dance. Stone was distracted, and upon her realization, tried to keep up with her partner.
“The high and mighty general of the Fifth Battalion drinking a pleb’s simple drink,” Tor chuckled. “What a world — such a simple drink for a brash sort."
"Brash?” Gaius guffawed. “He was a callous bastard!”
“You might be over-exaggerating a little.”
“Come now, Tor, you can't be serious — His demeanor ground against every tiercel who walked in his presence!” He swirled the drink with a loose talon casually before taking another drink. "He once beat the feathers off of a poor lass who dared stand on two paws around him, that's true!"
“True enough.” Tor adjusted himself to take a more relaxed posture on the pillows. “You can’t deny his rather, um, glowing personality.”
“He nearly threw you in the brig for drinking with the company,” Gaius reminded him, raising a brow. "Practicing to beat my Virtues game is hardly an offense."
“The lads were a good bunch" — Tor took a moment to raise his cup in salutation — “Six guide them, wherever they be.”
“Aye,” Gaius too raised his cup, and then took an honorary sip. “That stupid class separation, though! Thought we'd never get the end of his lecture series on the Code.”
“I think he read the Veronian Code every night before bed.” Tor gestured towards the room. “Look around us. We’re living it up with the plebs! To Tartarus with tradition!” The two laughed boisterously, and knocked their cups together.
“To Tartarus, indeed," Gaius agreed. "Why have this silliness keep us from having a good time?” Tor nodded, taking another sip.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Stone's steady gaze on Tor. After meeting eyes again, she jerked her head away. Her staring continued over the course of the night while Tor and Gaius relaxed and talked of foolishness.
Tor drained his melah. The last of the drink left the teapot long ago. Sighing, he laid a talon over his chest, relaxed as the intoxicants finished the journey through his system. The haze begin it’s slow retreat, causing Tor to realize that he might have spent way too much time in the Golden Mask.
Gaius was leaning on the dais striking up conversation with the lovely Lilith. He employed his usual charm, causing the eagless to giggle between his playful banter. From her body language, she was nicely surprised that a tiercel of Gaius’ status was exchanging words so freely with a girl like her. Gaius idly pulled at her loose garments, slowly pulling her to him with his devilish smile.
While gently rubbing the bandages on his face, Tor looked down into his cup, with nothing but smelly tea dredges stuck to the bottom. As harsh as melah was, the buzz dulled his pain, and he was thankful for it.
He looked up and hopped in his seat, surprised to see Stone suddenly at his side. She rested comfortably on her back paws.
“Goodness, girl,” he exclaimed, placing a talon atop his pounding heart. “You can kill a gryphon with such stealth!” She bowed in forgiveness, the bells on her skirt jingling. She grabbed the empty teapot, cradling it delicately in her talons.
“Would you like some more, My Lord?” Her voice was small and she kept her head down.
Tor smiled, waving a talon . “No, no, my dear. It’s alright. If you want some. though, I'm sure we can get another pot.” Stone silently kept her stiff posture, but her wagging tail suggested a want to continue.
“You may speak,” Tor allowed.
“No, My Lord,” She blurted. She hesitated, tapping her fingers on the teapot's handle. “I hope you’re satisfied tonight, My Lord?”
“I’m fine, Stone — and for future reference, you don’t need to keep calling me your lord. It’s just a title.”
“Of course, sir.”
“No, I — ” He pinched the bridge of his beak with a frustrated grin. “Never mind.” He chuckled lightly. He looked her over, getting a closer look of her mask. It’s white facade obscured much of her eyes, and ran along the top of her beak. It was trimmed in gold, in a pattern that swam and flowed like ocean waves. He followed the trimming up the mask, landing on the red headfeathers that lightly bounced on her head.
“Would you permit me to speak, sir?”
“Of course, Stone.” He locked his eyes with hers. She broke eyesight, looking to the floor.
“You look a little tired. I have a feeling that you might need more than simple directions to the tram.”
“I thank you for the offer, but I...” his voice trailed off in thought. He tried to retrace his steps, but could not recall the paths he and Gaius took from the tram station.
“Judging by your look, my — er, sir, you don’t seem very familiar with the district of this tier.” She shifted her weight. “And you flying would be out of the question.”
“I'm sure I could always ask Gaius to help...” He looked over to Gaius, who was flirting up a storm. Tor turned back to Stone with a smirk. "Maybe not — But I can't go home without him."
“We have rooms here, sir," Stone said. "He’ll have a place to stay.”
Tor mulled the thought. Logically, he would normally keep to his friend’s side — But Gaius is a grown tiercel, he can handle himself tonight.
“Bah." Tor waved a talon. "He knows his way back home. I, however, could use the guide.” He pushed himself upwards onto his back paws. He steadied himself on the wall as the world seesawed around him. While the wall propped him up, Stone slid under his free arm to balance him out. No more melah for you, lad!
He looked over to Gaius, too occupied with his own pleasures to pay much attention to Tor. Tor shrugged — as well as he could while being held — knowing he'd see Gaius the next day. Before he could ask Stone to move, she wordlessly moved forward. Tor draped his talon over her shoulder, levering himself to keep their steps balanced.
They past by patrons with dropped jaws and wide eyes, gazing in disbelief: It looked like a blazed was being taken home by a lord! The madame had shared this sentiment, stopping Stone from proceeding past her counter. Rounding it, she pushed her face into Stone's, with a stare that could melt through her. Stone's body froze, her wings clamped tight against her body, and her tail wove itself around her left leg.
“How dare ye even think of walking out that door,” the madame growled. She tried to keep her outrage quiet, but Tor could pick it up.
Stone tried to look away, but was forced to gaze into the eyes of a beast. “He merely asked, missus Grizelda.”
“I can’t risk a senator on ye. Ye’re expected here" — Grizelda pushed a talon into Stone's chest — "but out there? Absolutely not. You’ve severely misjudged your position, dearie.” She said "dearie" with a smouldering hatred that caused Stone's head to cower.
“Well, I —” Stone slowly began to back up. She stopped when Tor lifted his talon from her shoulder, and replaced it upon Grizelda's.
“Madame,” he started. She froze in place, slowly turning her head to look at the towering Tor.
Her words bumbled about in her mouth while she tried to form something coherent. “Milord, I’m only looking out for y-yer best interest, sir.”
“I understand your concern,” Tor replied, his expression very casual. “But I think I can handle this.”
“But yer position?”
“Madame,” he proclaimed, looking under a scowl. “I am a senator in the Confederacy. She is my company and my guide. I will be escorted out by this young eagless regardless of my position.” The poor Grizelda was stunned. She retreated back behind the counter, her head bowed to Tor the entire time.
A nearby group of gryphons stared at Tor, baffled and bewitched by his performance. He scrutinized them from under a scowl. Their tails curled up between their legs and they tactically decided to look away. Out of the corner of his eyes, Tor saw more do the same, going about their business.
Looking back to Stone, her beak was agape in surprise. Tor chuckled, and gestured an arm to the exit. Obscured by the hall to the rest of the bordello, he opened the pocket door and offered her exit. "Well? After you."
She pensively walked out the door, taking the lead. He calmly took to her side as he wrapped his wings over his shoulders. He was confident he could walk unassisted. Tor and Stone walked in silence. Tor looked up to the rest of the city, a triumphant smile on his beak.
If Gareth saw what I just did, he mused, he’d be moulting faster than my grandfather. He stopped himself briefly as he sifted through the recesses of his mind. Wait, he’s dead.
“Something the matter, sir?” Stone asked, concerned. Tor shook his head, both as a confirmation of his status and to get back with reality.
“Then best keep up, sir." She beckoned him along with her tail. "We’re still quite a ways away.”
Tor stopped her briefly, putting a talon on her shoulder. "Stone, if you don't mind?" When she looked back, Tor pulled his coat off and offered it to her. Before she hesitated, he explained: "It's a bit nippy out here. I don't want you to catch a cold, eh?" But wordlessly: I'm sorry girl, but that gawdy outfit is just a little too goofy to be out in public.
Her tail wagged, obscuring what reaction she might have had under her mask. But her small voice piped up happily: "Thank you, sir. I hadn't considered grabbing mine before we left."
The two carried on past puddles glowing amber and buildings dripping wet. The night was cool with a gentle mist falling. The moon, like the mountain before them, cast its hazy hue on the world below. Tor kept his eyes on Stone. The red that dyed her crown looked more like a fashion statement than a branding, as it meshed well with her brown coat. But more than her appearance, something picked at his mind.
“Why are you doing this?” He asked as the two passed by a corner. She stopped under a lamp, bathing her in a pale gold. She turned to face him, keeping her head down and obscuring her face in shadow.
“I wish to repay my debt,” she said, after taking a few moments on thought.
Tor cocked his head to the side. “I don’t understand — what debt?”
“The one I owe to you. It’s not much, but if my own kind act can pay for one of yours, we’d be even.” She giggled. "Well, I guess after the coat, there's one more on my head."
Tor extended his head to meet her under shadow, where she continued to retreat from his eyesight. “Rovena?”
She sighed, pulling the mask off. She looked up to expose her face to the light, where her eyes glowed in the light. “If it wasn’t obvious, My Lord. I’m surprised you remembered my name.”
“Of course I do, you are not hard to forget — But, what debt are you speaking of?”
“Two debts, actually. One for saving my life, and one for giving me money." Rovena looked away with a slight smirk. "Though, it would be nearly impossible to repay you for defending me.”
Tor shook his head, feeling bittersweet. He dipped his head to have a better look at her face. “That’s very noble of you, Rovena, but you have no debt to me. What gives you such a silly idea?”
“I don’t want you wasting things on me,” she replied with a sad chortle. “I’m an outcast. No need to expend such pleasantries.”
“My friend, that was kindness. Kindness has no prejudice.” Rovena’s surprised glowing eyes looked into his. "My friend" an unfamiliar moniker for her.
“I cannot help but think of it as a debt, sir," she continued after a few moments, looking away to rub her eyes. "Not many people are privy to even giving me the time of day, let alone an act like that.”
“If you’re concerned about your birth" — Tor whisked a talon in front of him —"think nothing of it. Your past isn’t important to me, the present is.”
“Your performance looked so simple, and yet, it was more than that, sir.”
Tor chuckled, “Well, I wouldn’t call it simple.” He extended a wing outwards, taking Rovena in with a friendly embrace. She shuddered at the touch. “Getting attacked by a drunken tiercel isn’t exactly what I expect to do after listening to the Canterlot Philharmonic.” Rovena wiggled her way out reach of Tor's big, brown wing. Tor bowed his head, holding up a talon in silent forgiveness.
“It’s alright, sir," Rovena said, stroking her tail nervously, "I’m just not accustomed to such gentle treatment. Forgive me.”
“No, forgive me. I don’t want to do anything that would give you discomfort.” They continued down the street, walking side by side.
“I’m still thankful,” Rovena continued, gingerly avoiding a puddle in her path. “It's been a long time since the very idea of kindness was imparted on me. Though, I should still repay you.” Tor sighed, looking for a solution. He was thankful she couldn’t see him roll his eyes in the dark.
“If you’re so inclined to ‘owe me,’ then I request you pay it off by staying with me tonight.” She stopped in her tracks, and her breathing become erratic. She took a talon and slowly slid some of her clothing over the shoulder. She bent her head down, and stared back at the ground, as if to hide any semblance of shame.
“Then,” she said, hesitantly, “I am yours.”
Tor rushed to her front, holding up hesitant talons. “No, no, please! By the Six, no! I meant as a guest, Rovena — not as a bed partner.”
Rovena squinted, confused and surprised. “You mean, stay in a guest room?"
“Yes,” Tor laughed. “To even think I’d be so crass!” She too, giggled, bashfully sliding the material back onto her shoulder.
“It was a strange proposition,” she responded, grinning nervously.
“I’ve just not had guests for ages, and to entertain someone would be lovely, especially you.”
“Are you normally so friendly,” Rovena remarked, returning her to her walk, “or is this the drink talking?”
Tor rolled his eyes in thought. After a few moments, he replied, “A bit of both... But my offer still stands. I want you to pay your debt by being my guest.”
Rovena avoided his gaze. She slowly made her way forward, reluctant to respond. Tor allowed her to move on, returning to her side. Smiling to himself, the two made their way down the many twists and turns of the fourth tier before coming upon an open, cobbled plaza holding the tram station. It glowed like an ethereal beast in the mist, its lights amplified by the puddles reflecting its flickering gaslight. The smell of burnt rubber and oil stuck to the wet air around them.
They approached the elegant terminal, which snaked up a slanted side of city wall. Four tracks led up the the grey brick, meeting up with another station that peaked on the edge up tier. Looking up, Tor could barely see a line of cars through the midnight fog as they slowly traversed the height of a far off tier.
The rumble of thunder rang through the night as the two made their way up polished stone steps and under the terminal’s awning. The glow of the ticket booth guided Tor, leaving Rovena fiddling with her fingers next to a grey painted wooden column.
“Tier eight,” he requested. The late working zebra behind the iron bars nodded, exchanging glimmering pieces with printed tickets. Tor placed his goods in a belt pouch.
Raindrops began to fall as he sat on a simple bench closest to the tram entrance, with Rovena silently joining him on the far side.
“How long until your tram arrives, sir?” Rovena asked, leaning over from her perch.
“Not very long,” Tor replied, nodding in thought. “The executive tram is quite fast.”
“I’ve not ridden in quite a long time.”
Tor's ears perked. “You have ridden the executive tram?”
“It was...” She hesitated in response. “...Some time ago.” Tor grunted in acknowledgement, dissatisfied with her answer. He was unsure if she heard him, as thunder bellowed it’s boisterous calling across the sky. Before long, the rains started to pour ferociously. The coolness of rainfall drifted over to the two. Tor smiled, and moaned in relief, tilting his head back to rest on the wooden wall behind him.
“Have you ever,” Tor asked, opening an eye, “simply sat down to enjoy the rain?” Rovena looked to the ground, thinking to herself.
“Not since I was young." She shrugged. "It always felt like an activity for a fledgling.”
“You should enjoy the rains while you can, Rovena,” Tor said, turning his eye back to the outside. Opening the other one, he gave his thoughts. “It’s unlike the snow that howls through the night in the winter, or the chilling waters that drone on in the autumn times. Summer rain is something, like a gift. When it is given to you, you first don’t expect it. The heat of the sun’s glow gives no reprieve except for when you go inside, or wait for the loving moon to grace the sky. But after awhile, you accept it, and allow it to give you it’s gift.”
“The rain is usually a little less welcome where I live,” Rovena rebutted. “It makes the ground muddy and it seeps through the holes in the roof. I don’t feel comfortable when a mist washes over me; it’s always cold and uncaring.”
“You shouldn’t be so dismissive of the rains, my friend. There is sometimes a rainbow to be seen within.” Tor saw the blazed put a talon under her beak, lightly stroking the underside with the top of a digit. She was about to speak when the squealing shriek of a tram’s brakes screamed through their heads. Tor groggily hopped off the bench, catching himself on its armrests.
Tor walked through the archway into the interior of the station, and the stench of burnt rubber was strong. Looking back to Rovena, she held a talon to her nose. He nodded towards her, and she did in return, assuring him she was alright. They climbed a metal walkway, its talonholds curved in bands of brass and steel. They continued in silence across until they began to descend.
“You’ve still yet to answer my question, Rovena,” Tor said as they reached the other side. She kept silent as he pulled out the ticket, revealing a second one to Rovena. Tor approached the conductor and placed a simple ticket into her gloved talons. The conductor bowed while she opened the door.
Tor stepped up and through the hatch, only to turn to Rovena, who was apprehensive to approach. She stroked her tail again, indecisive. She tried to avoid Tor's gaze, but couldn't help to look at him. Tor smiled softly to try and assure her. With a lopsided smirk, she stepped forward with a nod.
Tor placed the other ticket into the conductor’s talons. While she was confused, she let Rovena through without question. He helped her up into the car. Rovena stepped up hesitantly, her tail wagging wildly like a fledgling walking into her first day of school. She joined Tor at a seat nearest to the door, and clasped the railing. Though she was nervous, she took the time to look at Tor to grin.
When the car hummed to life, Tor yawned. After a few minutes, he soon fell asleep.
The lights waved over Rovena’s face as the tram slowly climbed the tiers of the foggy Stoneanchor. Her heart fluttered as the city grew smaller after each stop, which — Thank the Six! — picked up no more passengers. The further they rose, the more ornate and beautiful the buildings became, and how insignificant the world grew below. She had missed her old home up here, staring down at the world.
I hope you've kept my garden alive, Felix, or I'll sic mama on you! She smiled softly out the window. It had been years since she rode the executive tram, not since that foggy night after Captain Highwind came back from the frontier. Not since that day she had to dye her headfeathers.
However, on the seventh tier stop, one new guest climbed aboard. He looked ragged and tired, but he wasn't drinking tonight — he was occupied with something more important. Rovena knew businessgryphs when she saw them. The tiercel casually strolled to a seat in front of her and Tor. He fiddled with what looked like a talon-held crossbow without a lathe, with a strange contraption replacing the release mechanism. Whatever it is, Rovena thought. It looks silly.
But while looking at the device, she didn’t take into consideration that he would be looking look at her, as well. Rovena’s eyes met scarlet, and that scarlet was glaring straight at her. His wide eyes darted to Tor, and his face grew in alarm. Rovena shrunk in her seat, covering herself with Tor's coat. She recognized him as the gryphon accompanying Tor the evening before.
Until the tram stopped at the eighth tier, they shared a stern gaze. Gareth, without a word, shot up from the seat, shoving his talon-held device into the holster under his arm. Their eyes were locked until he left, rushing quickly off of the platform. Rovena looked to Tor, then back to the empty seat where Gareth sat, with a simple thought bouncing in her mind:
Tor was awoken with a bright, searing pain lancing straight into his open eyes. With a cry of agony, he quickly rolled over, only for him to land two feet down on the cold tile floor. He rose on his rump with a groggy groan, only to be sniped again through his scarlet curtains. Instead of retreating behind his bed, he took the next best step and shielded his face with a talon.
The worst is over! He sighed in relief, cursing the early morning sun. While he moved to get off the floor, a new pain bore into his brain — the cursed skull-splitting pain of the hangover. He moaned in agony while he steadied himself on the mantle next to his bed. To his surprise, a little glass chalice sat on the mantle, with water sparkling inside. His head pounded a little more while he reached for the water, slowly drinking it as to not evoke the wrath of his angry gut.
He leaned against the mantle while he groaned more. Its maple underside was aglow from a warm fire crackling beneath it. Tor idly flapped his wings to draw in the heat. Okay. No more drinking. Never again.
It was a comfortable lie.
Tor didn't notice the silver tray that came with the water at first, only to realize it after putting the glass back where it came from. The glass was joined by a few more items: A dried piece of toast, a black jar with accompanying knife, and a piece of parchment. Taking a last swig, he grabbed the jar and knife.
He twisted open the top, and a sudden belching of old beer rolled into the room. His face contorted with nausea, not expecting the smell to throw him off. Even the smell of yeast extract can help you through a hangover — blech!
He dipped the knife into the black stuff, scooping a small glob of the sticky, mucus-like goo. He set the jar down and replaced it with the toast. He spread a thin layer upon the stiff brown surface, stopping suddenly — Damn, was there any butter put on this?
The overwhelming taste of salt slid over his tongue after the first bite, eliciting a satisfied moan from Tor. He leaned on the mantle nonchalantly, taking little sips of water between bites. All the while he rubbed his temples, trying desperately to ease his suffering.
Sure he wasn't going to spew anytime soon, he pulled the parchment from the tray, shaking off any crumbs. He took the last few bites before reading:
Lord Tor Razorwing,
Thank you for the relaxing evening in your stead. I apologize for not staying around in the morning, but I have duties to attend to. Your conversation held quite a bit of weight as we spoke; It’s been years since I’ve been thought of so highly by a gentletiercel such as yourself — It's unfathomable if it'll happen to me again. You have no idea how little conversation I have that involves social matters. To be frank, your time has been refreshing.
I found odd, however, that you have no servant on the estate, or at least, from what you’ve told me, not one who lives here with you. Lots of nobles like to show them off, but you are of a different sort. So, at your surprising request, I placed out what you had asked. I’m not sure about this black jar, though. It makes me uncomfortable, and looks like something that the Six would banish from Sarmma and into Toke Gün. But, you say it's a hangover cure, so I won't argue.
I must keep this message as short as my remaining time. I have made the bed (which was beautiful — The view from the balcony was breathtaking. I'd just live out there if I could) and have left your supplies on your mantle, as promised.
Six guide you,
-R
Tor chuckled bashfully, idly playing with his headfeathers. She was a wonderful guest, he thought, while looking over the elegant writing again. Very knowledgeable, very... fun. He sighed wistfully. She certainly was something.
Though, Gaius was right about her talonwriting. It was beautifully written. Script like this, Tor thought, is reserved for those who have been educated. Good talonwriting was not uncommon with the lower classes. However, the style Rovena used had definite signs of education, and a sort of cadence evoked only from calligraphic training. Not even he possessed the skill — As a fledgling, he willfully neglected to learn it.
From the corner of his eye, Tor saw his disheveled appearance in a full-length mirror across the room. He wore nothing but a white, wrinkled nightgown. From there, his glanced at the ornate grandmother clock hanging above the mirror.
“Half past six,” he spoke aloud. “A good time to be awake.” He pulled the nightgown off, stopping to rub his head, hoping it wouldn't explode from the pressure. He opened his wardrobe and retrieved something simple: A white linen shirt with Prench-cuffs (a relatively new fashion), with matching brown waistcoat and breeches. It would be obscured by his black senatorial banyan, but it was comfortable and low-key.
While tying his cravat, he approached a small weapons rack that hung next to his bed. They were all swords, and personal favorites of Tor. He reached for his gold-hilted saber and slung its baldric over his waistcoat.
He looked up at a sword that sat above the ceremonial saber. It was a long sword, missing its scabbard. Once beautifully shining, it was tarnished and dull. A good day to sharpen it up, he concluded, and enclosed the blade with a towel.
He made his way out of his chambers, into the foyer of his humble abode. Unlike most who resided on the eighth tier, he slept on the bottom floor. So, instead of emerging onto a balcony overseeing the foyer, he exited in shadows, beneath the perch of the second story.
“Good morning, milord,” a voice rang out, echoing in the cavernous room. Tor looked over to the entrance of the formal dining room, where the voice emanated: An elegantly dressed eagless casually strolled, her talons clicking across the tile with each stride. A small collection of cleaning implements hung off a belt straddling her midsection.
“Good morning, Regina,” Tor replied, nodding to her in greeting. “I hope everything is in order today?”
“Quite.” she remarked, slowly advancing towards Tor. Her voice was that same sing-song accent the madame of the Golden Mask had, but more breathy. “I couldn’t help but notice that the guest bedroom was occupied this morning.”
“Yes. She was —"
“Here on a social visit,” Regina interrupted, holding up a talon. “Oh, he spilled like one of the city’s hot oil drums when I found her.” Tor acknowledged her discovery with a nod and a smile. Regina was significantly older than he, and an aura of wisdom persisted around her tired, purple eyes. Tor dropped onto all fours in respect.
She chuckled as she walked past. “The girl was very scared of me.”
Tor chortled, replying, “A blazed in a lord’s household? I would imagine so.”
“Aye, but I've been told I've a bit of a gruff demeanor." She smirked. "Though, she seems like a smart cookie — Are ye trying to get her out of the slums?”
Tor rubbed a finger under his beak. “She has scribe skills that deserve recognition, I think. An eagless like her would do well in a secretary’s job — You know, the one you rejected.”
“Ah, abusing yer power once more, I see." Regina smiled, pointed an accusing feather duster at Tor. "It’s going to get ye in trouble.” Tor shrugged, but the thought had crossed his mind.
She approached a picture that hung on the inclined wall of the staircase, dusting off the top. “I saw the note as I brought in yer meal,” she quickly segued. “Apparently the lass prepared everything before she awoke this morning.”
“I faintly recall asking her to put it out for you,” Tor recollected, circling around to her right side. “You did tell me you had some dusting to attend to today, so I didn’t want a meal to be on your duties.”
“Very kind of ye, milord,” Regina chuckled. “However, ye know that toast is but a minute of me time?”
He shrugged as he approached the door. “A minute more for you to finish. Why stay longer when you can get done early?”
“Ye sweet talker, Tor.”
Tor chuckled while he rose to his back paws. He clasped the brass handle of the oak door and pressed down on the thumb latch. "Have a good day, Regina. Don't work too hard."
"Never do," Regina replied, waving with the duster. "Best of luck, milord."
A brief thought crossed his mind as he left while sliding open the door. I wonder — When I lift gryphs from their station, am I filtering them through to our benefit? He walked through, briefly looking back to Regina. Are we defining what constitutes as merit?
Tor walked out onto the street and the warm summer morning, shaking off his mood. It felt like his head was beaten with a blackjack as the shine strained his eyes. Looking up, he could see the great tiers above, bustling with activity. The upper tiers glowed pristine under the warm glow of the sun. Though, none could compete with the great tower that was the Spire.
The Spire was a towering obelisk of polished stone, with intricately carved designs swirling up and around its diameter. Hundreds of windows and balconies dotted its facade, as if another city lived inside. Within the great structure held the most important workings of the Confederacy and the home of its bicameral ruling body. It could be seen from any point in the city of Stoneanchor as an eternal overwatch.
Tor walked briskly up the street, passing by many who were rushing to the tram station. He lived close to the market on this tier, and the swirling smells of roasted meats and baking breads wafted about, making his mouth water. A little fledgling crier shouted headlines of the day, waving about a wrinkled newspaper. The hustle and bustle of the eighth tier was relatively calm compared to those lower in the city, which was certainly more packed. But this was the lifeblood of Stoneanchor: it's humble citizenry.
The local tram terminal was jammed with people going to work, all crowding around the ticket office. The office's stands were all open, attendants frantically doling out coin and the tickets for passage. Shouts and conversation echoed under the tall marble awning, along with the occasional rumble and squealing of machinery. Not in much of a hurry, Tor joined the queue for the common tram. Session started near to eight in the morning, and looking up to a clock hovering above the ticket office, it was just about seven.
While in line, he was surrounded by nervous gryphs and zebs — It was uncommon for a legislator to be in line, doubly so for a lord. Many dropped onto their talons, or bowed before him. Tor couldn't stop everyone from doing what was required by custom, so he simply smiled and nodded at their gestures.
"Bit of a hot day, eh, friends?" Tor asked, flashing a smile. Around him, chuckles rippled through the group that heard him. Almost everyone loosened up, sharing the good mood.
It took a little while, but he was able to get his own ticket, joining a few from the line onboard the tram. Like outside, a multitude of respectful gestures were given to Tor, where he repeated his placating gestures. He scooted through and found a nice seat for him, facing fore.
After the car was stuffed, the engines on the roof charged and rumbled to life. The idle hiss of steam and the shout of attendants sounded muffled through the walls, but overpowered the din inside. The car lurched forward and rolled out onto the tracks.
Its ascent was slow but methodical, traveling between the tiers in good time. As it rose, Tor looked down to the city. From where he was, it was like hanging miles above the earth. But, that was more on Tor's perspective — His stomach lurched at the sight, his ears flopped back and his talons began to shake . He looked to the riveted floor under him, trying to ground himself. His heart accelerated, and his breathing grew quicker. He kept his mind occupied until the car reached the eleventh tier.
He didn't realize he was holding his breath when the tram came to a stop. He exhaled loudly, drawing the attention of his neighbors. Tor smiled weakly, but couldn't hide his phobia for too long. But keeping up appearances, he rose calmly, following the passengers off the car and into the daylight.
Under the sun, Tor shone with a glare, but paled in comparison with the Spire that loomed above. The bleached stone terrace ahead shone heavenly, taking in the whole power of the sun. The buildings were made of limestone, marble and carved stone, majestic palaces of governance. The gardens and artificial ponds were healthy and teeming with life, bordering the hundreds of statues that seemingly were at every corner. The terrace of the eleventh tier was a crown jewel on the head of the Confederacy, and its shine made it a greater majesty.
Tor smiled as he walked down Constitution Boulevard. Clearly the Six want this day to be a memorable one.
The boulevard was wide and separated by a long standing hedge, broken occasionally for the intersections. If the crowd of the eighth tier was nerve-wracking to the casual passersby, then the eleventh tier would cause terrible panic, as the crowd size was three-fold larger. Unlike the majority of the city where carts and wagons were permitted to roll, the eleventh tier restricted traffic to foot, which resulted in a wide wave of beings going to and fro without the worry of a speeding wagon, but ample room to not feel too crowded.
Constitution Boulevard led to a wide stone plaza. A long reflecting pool led to the base of the Spire, stopping just before the great arches that supported the tower. Carved marble statues lined the pool, life-like recreations of famous gryphons from before and during Confederate history. They stood half a head taller than the many hundreds who milled about to work. However, one of these many hundreds accompanied Tor while he admired a stoic looking eagless.
"Tor," Gareth started, eyeing at the statue. "Staring at Scipia again?"
“Gareth, my friend.” Tor nodded to him in greeting. He looked over Gareth's person — bags formed under his eyes, and he slumped over slightly. Aside from the books under one arm, he frequently adjusted a holster under the other. It looked at little too tight for Gareth's slight body.
“You look exhausted," Tor consoled. "How are you this morning?”
Gareth grunted, sliding his tired gaze to Tor. “A little perturbed, to say the least.”
Tor raised a brow. "A shame — It's such a beautiful morning.”
Gareth shrugged his shoulders and waved for Tor to join with him with his tail. They walked slowly past the pool.
“I was a little focused on my work last night.”
“I understand," Tor said. "The zebra trade offer deserves to have another look-over. I had some time with a copy before I went out last evening; Quite the proposition, but, I must confess that I’m a little put off by the whole thing. There's a lot they're asking for — it’s as if their iron reserves have all dried up!”
“Indeed," Gareth nodded weakly. "There are details that deserve the sharp eye of an economic body like the forum." He gave Tor a small smile. "Perhaps the senate's diplomats can give them what for when we're done with it.”
“We would be in crisis were it not for your people, Gareth.” Tor patted his friend on the shoulder, shifting the toweled sword to the other side. "Ah, but I have to say, you missed a beautiful sky last night!"
Gareth smirked. "So jubilant, I see."
“How could I not be? Compared to Stoneanchor, Razorwing hold isn’t as grand on a foggy night. Of course, I am more familiar looking down at your farm, not up.”
Gareth responded with a light chuckle. “Funny how you'd prefer to be down in the fields than up in Ferglyph."
“The Stonetalon Farmstead was my home away from home,” Tor reminded his friend. He cocked a brow with a mischievous grin. "Besides, papa would skin me if he caught me on Ferglyph Tower's roof. Your barn was the next best thing." The two shared a chuckle.
Tor continued: “I must interject another subject, Gareth — I apologize for hitting you a few night ago." Gareth's brow shot up at attention. "I was caught up with the fight. My emotions got the best of me — Not a good excuse, but I'm sorry I did that to you. We shouldn't get physical over these things."
Gareth nodded. "Thank you, Tor" — He looked away briefly — "But now I know how Garacaius Ney felt after you pummeled him."
"Garacaius called you a rat's cunt and broke three of your ribs." Tor chuckled darkly. "Served him right, I thought."
Gareth gave Tor a lighthearted smile, but betrayed it as his brows crinkled. He sighed, a melancholy mood taking him over. Tor stopped and frowned.
"What's the matter?" He asked. Gareth looked away and rubbed his wrist. Tor was familiar with that gesture — he was nervous.
“It’s, um — it's you, Tor.”
Tor cocked his head back, surprised. "Me?"
Gareth sighed, and pushed through his headfeathers with a talon. He then steeled himself with a scowl. “You know what in Tartarus you did, Tor.” He looked around with concern, as if expecting someone to attack. “You’re going to get yourself killed if you carry on with what you’re doing.”
Tor scowled, but quickly softened his features. “You know," he concluded.
“Know?” Gareth chuckled nervously. His brow crooked cockeyed as his voice steeped in sad disappointment. “I was there, on the tram.” Gareth shook his head. “What in the world are you doing, Tor?”
“Being a friend, Gareth.” Tor slowly grew in annoyance, wantonly dismissing Gareth's concern. “Her life is rough and without the goodness of being rich. I only did what I could to share my wealth in some way.”
“A friend?” Gareth scoffed. His eyes grew wide in concern, his beak agape. “As one of yours, I insist that you stop your associations with that... that... wretch!”
Tor turned away from Gareth with a grunt. “I don’t need a lecture about class.”
“If you don’t get one, you’ll be dead! Tor, the Veronian Code isn’t something you can simply ignore! Association with the classes lower than you is punishable.” Gareth pounded fist to palm to emphasize: "Punishable by death if necessary."
“You make it sound like those below us don’t deserve any pity.”
“What I’m saying,” Gareth stressed. “Is that someone that low cannot ever advance higher than her station. You’re just giving her false hope.”
Tor swept the air aside. “We're squandering talents of those we give no help to, Gareth." His demeanor faltered very briefly. If only we did more for them.
“The code clearly states that we cannot have such relations with the lower class. That is what messengers are for.”
“By the Six!” Tor clenched his talons into fists. “Have you even read through the whole code?”
Gareth crossed his arms. “I have,” he said indignantly.
“Then you know it's a flimsy code! It's out to suppress our brethren.”
“Why do you say that?” Gareth cocked his head to the side. “The code is very straightforward: Advancement is crucial to success. As a symbol of your success, you must purge your life of all that was below you. If you associate yourself with aspects of lower status, you are unworthy of said status, and must be executed for such.”
“The Three Corners,” Tor said, stating the title of these tenets.
“Yes!” Gareth exclaimed. “Don’t you see why I’m concerned? You can die for your idiocy!”
“I’ve been pretty good so far — Look where my violations have gotten you!” The two continued their argument for a few moments before being interrupted by an old gryphon. He was a stout and rotund fellow, and his flowing blue forumite banyan didn't help hide the gut hanging over his sword belt. His grip was tight around a sword that hung just above his silver-hilted saber.
“Is this he, Stonetalon?” He interrupted, his voice raspy. “This lord has broken our most sacred of traditions?” Tor glared at Gareth, who shifted his scarlet eyes away.
Gareth gulped: “Yes, Raziel.”
Before Tor could respond, the stocky forum member drew the sword that he was gripping, flashing sharpened steel in the bright morning sun. Both Tor and Gareth backed up, wide-eyed. Raziel pumped his chest out, unfurling his wings to look massive. As intimidating as you want to look, Raziel, Tor noted. You make the mistake of making yourself a bigger target.
“Boy,” Raziel bellowed, pointing his sword at Tor’s throat, “I should kill you where you stand!” Without a second thought, Tor drew his sword, throwing off the towel that guarded it from the elements. It was as long as Raziel's. Tor hovered the sword tip-to-tip. He stood straight, straightened his back paws to face forward, and extended his arms out, creating a rounded shape in front of his chest. Raziel's ears peeled back, realizing that he might have pulled a sword on someone who was very out of his league.
Tor's chest began to bellow with increased airflow. His could feel his pulse lightly quiver the sword. His feathers began to ruffle and his senses grew focused. In the back of his mind, he could hear roars and screams, reminding him of the terrors of the frontier. The menacing head of a horned minotaur flashed on Raziel's face, but Tor resisted a fearful swing. He didn't want to strike a gryphon, especially when a crowd began to form.
Calm down, lad, Tor told himself. He's a gryph. Not a mino. He closed his eyes briefly. One. Two. One. Two...
From the corner of his eyes, he could see Gareth conflicted. He rubbed his wrist with more fury, and his eyes darted from Tor to Raziel.
As moments crawled into seconds, a gentle reprieve graced the two combatants as a tall eagless landed gracefully at Tor’s left. She stood like the statues next to them, and almost the same pale white.
“Raziel,” she said, outstretching an open palm to him. “Put that thing away before you hurt someone.”
“How can I, when your fellow senator has clearly broken the Veronian Code?” Raziel gestured wildly with the sword, occasionally tapping the blades together with a heavy tink.
The eagless looked down to Tor. She was a head taller than him. Smiling, she said casually, “Tor, wonderful to see you again.”
“Indeed, Ariel." Tor creased his brow, confused. “You’re rather calm about all of this.”
“Well, you know us Whitetails: Always the calmest in a typhoon.”
“I don’t give a damn about a stupid typhoon!” Raziel's scowl bent into more creases on his ancient forehead. “Razorwing here has been fraternizing with the lower class!” Around them, the crowd's din rolled in mutterings, surprised or dismissive of the claim.
“Now, now, Raziel,” Ariel rebutted, holding up her talons, palms up. “Let go of your blade. We ‘fraternize’ all the time. Goodness, friend — we’re doing it right now!”
“That’s not the point,” Raziel exclaimed. “We both rule this country! The Code clearly states —”
“I understand what the Code says, Raziel,” Tor interrupted, dropping his sword to his side. “But we are the body that represents the whole of the Confederacy’s populace, we must be lax on the subject. It’s common practice, honestly!”
Raziel scoffed at Tor. “Bah! And I thought it was Gaius Stormbeak who was the fool of the senate. Why his head isn't on a pike is beyond me.”
“I’m sorry,” a familiar voice chimed in. “Did someone mention me?” Gaius emerged from the depths of the crowd surrounding them and closed in on Tor, flanking his other side. Gareth sighed and put his head in a talon. Raziel continued to scowl.
“Not a good time, Gaius,” Tor remarked.
“Oh, nonsense, Tor." Gaius flashed a solid shit eating grin. "When I see a scuffle about to start, I aim to be close to it.”
“I should be cutting you instead of Razorwing here, Stormbeak,” Raziel threatened, pointing his sword at Gaius. “You’re probably the worst offender!”
“I’ve had enough attempts on my life, my dear,” Gaius taunted, grabbing the sword and cleaning his nails with the tip. “You should know that the senate defends their own.” Raziel pulled the sword back, Gaius letting go just in time.
“How dare you!” Disgust oozed from Raziel's words. By this time, the crowd began to grow larger, and started to incorporate members of each house. As the argument further boiled over, the divide grew and grew. When one side rebutted, the crowd grew on that side, and vice versa. Tor was afraid that a fight would break out right there.
Gareth's quietness stood out to Tor. Though concerned about Tor's health before the gathering, Gareth didn't lay out a talon in Tor’s defense. The forum directly quoted Gareth, but he didn't speak a word.
If he's my friend, he should have my back!
From their cries of the violation of the Veronian Code to the horror of a noble talking to a blazed, the argument ran in circles. The forum may have cited Tor and Gaius' fragrant disregard, but Tor could count at least ten such gryphons who did the same thing. It was logical: When one represents the populace, why should one abstain from talking to them?
The crowd's yells echoed everywhere in the plaza, seemingly bringing the the world to a stand still. Tor's body shook while countless voices powered through him, his included. Anything and everything was slung to beat the other side down, from vulgarities to slurs about a mother's beauty. But that shouting came to end when a booming voice quieted the sea of shouts.
“What in the Six is going on here?!” The mob collectively turned to the voice: Maia Highwind stood at one end of the divide. She strode through with her talon resting on her saber, its rubies shining brilliantly on the gold basket hilt. The entirety of the senate fell to all fours, their movement clamoring like a marching brigade.
The forum, in turn, simply backed up, arms crossed and brows furrowed.
“We have an entire nation to rule,” Maia roared, extending her wings. “But, we’re standing here yelling like school fledglings?!” Her sneer scrutinized everyone, piercing straight through the soul. The senatorial side bowed their heads in shame. Silence held this mob together in an uncomfortable embrace with the wind's howl as the only source of sound.
Raziel piped up, his wheezy voice barely above the whistle of the wind. “Consul, don’t you have any clue what your little subordinate has done?” He did his best to challenge Maia, but how his talon shook his sword showed what little strength he had.
Maia replied four-score louder. “Aside from ruffling your feathers, mister Blackstone?" Her eyes pierced him like a harpoon, causing him to shrink. Her clasped black cloak danced gently with the wind, amplifying her stately aura.
She continued: "May I remind you that your side of the Confederacy is pulling the spear from the rack? You think someone’s burning the books every time a senator sneezes.”
“Forgiveness, missus Highwater,” a new voice rose. The mob moved their heads again, this time to a middle-aged tiercel. A blue cape on his shoulder wrestled with the air as if trying to wrestle the majesty from Maia. His talon idly tapped its fingers on the emerald-encrusted silver hilt of a very deadly looking mace.
It was for forum's turn to bow and fall to the ground.
“Tradition has kept us alive all these years," he continued. "It is the glue that keeps our sides from falling apart.”
Maia cross her arms. “I’m sorry if we believe that traditions are guidelines, mister Helgar, not rigid definitions."
“Is now the time to discuss philosophy?" Helgar wagged a finger, tsking. "It was you yourself who said we have more important things to do — Quite the hypocrite.” Maia sighed and nodded, but her face was slanted with annoyance.
Helgar had a reputation of strict adherence to the Code, and demanded every forumite to follow it, which extended to the whole of society. The only reason his rule was challenged was due to the power of the senate.
“You all are dismissed,” Maia sharply ordered. A pregnant pause held everyone together for a moment before the mob started to trickle off. Tor glared at Raziel as he sheathed his weapon with practiced precision. But his heart sank when Raziel embraced Gareth in an old wing. As they turned away, Gareth gave a final apologetic look to Tor.
Tor turned to leave, but Maia put a talon to his shoulder, stopping him. Without a word, they stayed together as the crowd finally dispersed.
“At many times, I respect you for what risks you take, Tor,” Maia said quietly, still scowling. “Other times, I want to beat the tar out of you.” She walked past Tor, motioning to him with her tail. "Come with me."
Before coming along, Tor wrapped his sword with the towel and then fell to his talons, clasping the sword around a wing. He came to Maia's side with his head hanging.
Maia sighed, softening. “Get up, Tor. I’m not here to berate you.” He complied, brushing the dirt from his palms, then adjusting the sword so he held it under his arm again.
“My Consul,” Tor said. “I’m sorry.”
“You should be. You’re valuable in the senate, but I don't want to assign you a guard detail unless it's absolutely necessary. Guarding Gaius alone is already a hassle.”
Tor's ears flopped back while he rubbed his neck. “I know how much of a nuisance Gaius can be, but this is all my fault.”
“You're worth more than Gaius, Tor — While he has the hedonist's life, you have a mind to do what’s right.” Maia smirked. "I don't like admiring that you rock the boat, but I appreciate the conviction."
Tor shook his head, a bashful, lopsided smirk on his beak. "Thank you, ma'am, but, why do we protect him in the first place? I mean — don't get me wrong, I do like my friend being a live and all..."
“He has sway with the plebs," she said simply. "His name is mentioned frequently, be it in a pub or a bazaar. I have a feeling a tiercel like he would bring the brunt of Stoneanchor — nay, the Confederacy — upon everyone's heads if anything happens to him. You, though, are important in another manner.”
“I’m but a humble senator.”
“With many political allies, my friend. I saw the entire senate behind your back. Though Gaius has more with the plebs, he has yet to do anything of your caliber.”
“My uplifting of those from the lower classes?”
Maia smiled, nodding. “Indeed. It garners a wealth of respect from us.”
“I’m surprised it’s taken so long for the forum to figure it out,” Tor remarked, reminiscing back to his thoughts earlier that morning.
“It would’ve been sooner were it not for our undertalonedness, and Gareth. You should thank the Six — Their divine patience has kept his beak shut" — Maia shrugged defeated — "until now.”
“Well, Gareth has unfortunately fallen for the honeyed words of Helgar." Tor's ears flopped back, but a slight smirk grew on his beak. "I have to give it to him, though.”
“What is that, Tor?”
“He’s kept his talons on the Veronian Code for as long as I’ve helped him. I suppose all he needed a good push to fall in line.” Maia's smile matched Tor's melancholy.
Tor wanted to be angry. He wanted to march right up to Gareth's office and give him what for — maybe even beg for his friendship if he had to. Of all the gryphs I knew... Six's breath, how I wish it wasn't him. He exhaled sharply, frustrated. The damnedest thing is, he's in the right — He's following the law, and I'm openly defying it!
Tor and Maia walked silently until they arrived at a small park off from the plaza, tucked in between two large government buildings. The buildings around muffled the din from the rest of the tier, creating a hushed serenity within. Manicured bushes and fountains were arranged deliberately between freshly cut grass, with only the sound of bubbling water and tweeting birds echoing off the walls. It was fresh and earthy compared to the carved stone that made up the rest of the city.
They approached a huge bronze statue, painstakingly polished down to the deepest crannies. It was of two gryphons sharing a firm talonshake, wearing the ornate armors of the pre-Confederate past. Tor could recognize one immediately has his ancestor: Alana Razorwing. She was powerful in her brigandine-plate combination, with her off-talon caressing a saber that mirrored the one hanging from Maia's belt. The tiercel opposite of Alana was Baldric Logger. His face was worn from years of combat. Hanging near the bottom of the jinbaori on his shoulders was Helgar's mace.
“If only the founders were here to witness our petty squabbling." Maia sighed. "I can only imagine what they'd say about it."
Tor's eyes traced the happy expressions of the two great gryphons. “After the fifteen years of war they had to endure, I can only assume they'd bonk us on the beak and tell us to quit fussing.” He shook his head. "Goodness, I hope nothing worse comes from this!"
Maia chuckled. "Schoolboy fantasies! Dear Tor, such a fight would be impossible.” Maia puffed out her chest in pride. “We can move past these transgressions, it will only take time — We’ve become gryphons who use words to change our world, not weapons.”
Tor cleared his throat loudly, gesturing to the sword under his arm. Maia shifted her emerald eyes to avoid the dulled weapon, ignoring the irony.
“That point aside,” she grumbled, deflating her chest. “I won’t let such matters interrupt the status quo.” She put her talons together in thought, bouncing each digit off on another in a methodical fashion. "Hmm, perhaps..." She droned off.
While her gears turned, Tor kept his eyes on the statue. Baldric’s Day, a day celebrating Baldric Logger's efforts in the Gryphon Resurgence, was celebrated a month prior. Unlike the more stately Alana, who was better a diplomat than warrior, Baldric was unparalleled in his military prowess. He founded the Confederate military and its many traditions can be pinpointed to his army, simply known as the Twelve Thousand.
“In an hour, I’m meeting with Celestia,” Maia announced, breaking Tor’s thoughts. “I want you to be there in my place.”
“Me?” Tor asked, eyes widened.
“Yes, Tor. It’s to ensure some security for you." She tapped her fingers together as she spoke. "No one’s willing to risk your life under the nose of the most powerful being in the world. Due to the circumstances, I believe meeting as soon as possible would be much more fitting.”
Tor blinked, not due to her plan, but — “Me? In front of Celestia?”
Maia chuckled. "She's quite lovely once you get to know her! I think after the showcase this afternoon, we might have a lot more between us."
"Surely you don't want a fool like myself, ma'am — I'm not the right sort."
"Nonsense, Tor! You're perfect for the job. You're merely showing her around, seeing the sights... You'll have my schedule, there won't be a worry in the world!"
"Maia, surely I can go somewhere else," Tor said, dropping his formality. "I'm a blathering dolt compared to you."
She jut up a soft talon. "Need I remind you of the Karelia Crisis two winters ago? If you weren't there as my council and didn't have the relationship with the local Suomi gryphons you had, we would probably have seen a lot of bloodshed." She smiled. "If you can keep a border dispute from boiling into something like with the mino, escorting Princess Celestia will be like spearing fish in a barrel."
"Plus," she added, "It gives me time to keep Helgar and his friends from sliding a dagger between your ribs."
Tor shrugged, accepting her plea. “Well, when you say it that way..." He smirked. "What can you tell me about this showcase?"
“Not too much, but I know that Gareth had an example of it under his arm.”
“Yes, I saw that," Tor nodded. "I didn't catch a good look at it.”
“It looks like a crossbow without it’s lathe.”
Tor recalled the pamphlet from the previous morning. “That?!" He twisted is face in dramatic disbelief. "Surely we can do something better.”
“I’m told that it’ll put this" — she pat the hilt of Tor’s blunt sword — “out of commission.”
“I’m not too sure about that,” Tor challenged.
“Your mind will be changed, Tor,” She remarked. "It's a sight to behold — I can't even begin to describe it. There's a reason forum has their eyes on it." Maia snapped her fingers. Two guards, dressed in senatorial black, emerged from behind the statue and flanked Maia. Maia handed a folded parcel to the guard on her left, who accepted it with a nod.
Tor began, “Maia, please, I'm sure I'll be alright—”
“Just a little bit of insurance.” Maia smiled, patting Tor's shoulder. “Besides, why would I want you to die between now and tomorrow?” Tor opened his beak to respond, but shut it, arguing being a moot point.
Maia dismissed him with a wave. “On Celestia’s ship, my friend. Meet her there, quickly!” Looking down at Tor's talons, she grabbed the sword and eased it from his grip. “I don’t think the princess would appreciate you walking around with this.”
Tor left the park, and the guards joined him with eerie silence. Walking back to the Spire, the feathers on the back of his head stuck up while he grew paranoid of the occasional glance his way. Some smiled at him, and others shook their heads. It's like I have a bloody bullseye painted on my chest, he thought glumly. I'd rather be facing down a minotaur than endure such scrutiny!
The closer he approached the tower, the clearer he could see the carvings that ran up its walls. They formed patterns indicative of many other gryphon styles, reminiscent of flowing rivers, twisting vines and solemn orchids. Between these patterns bore engravings of history, from before the old republic to the dawn of the Confederacy centuries later. It was a monument to gryphon kind and its achievements.
Before entering the grand entrance of the Spire, he looked up, identifying the airship docking platforms. High above him were plenty of ships of many sizes, but Celestia' vessel was easy to see. Even from as far down as he was, he could see the winking shine of gold that glared from the underside of its hull. I understand having a national color, but that's just a thumb in the eye.
He passed through the grand archway of the Spire, its ornate carvings just as beautiful as the ones spiraling up the tower. The rest of the spire was mostly made of stone, but the arch was pure marble. It rose high above Tor, reaching the second story of the tower. Hanging from its apex was a large, swinging iron lamp, with a small flame burning within. It represented the ever present flame of democracy, and were it ever to be snuffed out, stories said, it would spell doom.
Tor brushed at the thought. Just a schoolboy fantasy...
Tor made good time to the elevators that surged up the tower, strange steel contraptions that conflicted with the rest of the warm interior, hissing and gently squealing between floors. The same aesthetic of carved stone was a strange juxtaposition to it, which incorporated balustrade railing to further amplify the opulence the capital building exerted. Polished marble floors reflected the Spire with immaculate sheen, augmented with borders of custom tile.
After Tor stepped inside a cab, the elevator rose with a surge as its electric motor hummed to life. Packed in a good crowd, he practiced his phobia coping measures by looking at the floor again, keeping his nervousness under wraps.
His destination was the fifth story, the top of the Spire's converted airport. What was once another level of offices and archives, it was rightly assumed aircraft would need to find a place to stay after they grew in popularity. It was hastily converted some fifty years prior, ten years after the first airships took off. Though not as packed as the airport on the other side of Stoneanchor, it did have enough seating to look like it.
Where Celestia's ship docked wasn't hard to find; its gate was the only one on this level that had a security detail — Not to mention it was crawling with gold-clad royal guards. They mulled about and kept to their official duties, keeping an eye on the passersby and chatting among themselves. As Tor and his guards approached, the ponies grew stiff at attention, their lances clattering against their barding.
A unicorn guard in particular approached Tor, who had a striking blue plume rise from his chamfrom and down the length of his criniere, ousting him as their commander. The caparison under his barding was the same color, and hung low to give the impression that instead of trotting, the guards glided across the floor.
“That’s far enough, sir,” the commander announced, holding up an armored hoof through the break in his caparison. “This terminal is only allowing guests of the Princess. If you would state your business?” Tor smiled at this guard, who was doing his job excellently. He was joined by two other guards at his sides.
“I am Lord Tor Razorwing,” Tor replied. His guard handed Maia's package to Tor, who then handed it over to the commander. "I've been sent here on behalf of the consul — she sends her regards, but she has been indisposed due to internal matters." The pony commander flipped open the leather package and inspected it carefully with his glowing magic. Tor was enamored at the dexterity this pony had, expertly flipping through pages with such ease.
And without talons, no less!
The guard grunted as he neatly folded the parcel back together, tying the leather thongs into a simple bow. “A pleasure, My Lord," he replied, hovering the package back to Tor.
As he touched the parcel, Tor briefly interacted with the aura of magic holding it up. His talon brushed into a sensation of simultaneous hot and cold, causing his whole arm to grow hazy, as if he had been resting on it for too long. He shivered at the feeling, causing his whole body to stand on edge. His feathers puffed out, his fur became gooseflesh.
So this is how it feels! He nearly yelled it — it was a feeling he could barely comprehend. The magic was brief, and his body returned to how it was in a matter of moments. The pony commander simply smirked.
“Apologies, My Lord,” he said. "It's not serious, however. It's just a temporary feeling when you touch arcane. It's a bit wilder when you touch the raw magics, though. Very crazy."
Tor exhaled, shivering again. "Goodness, sir. You could make money just for selling that sensation." They laughed while Tor regained his wits. Tor then gestured ahead with an outstretched talon."Shall we continue, commander?"
The commander nodded. "Come with me, sir."
Tor was led through a hallway that once held spaces for open doors, indicated by alcoves now covered in stone. In place of the old doors, carved busts now sat, detailing many old Confederate politicians from years past. Their foot and hoofsteps clicked and echoed through, bouncing down the corridor. It was like an anticipation for emerging on the other end, as the morning sun shone bright, obfuscating the outside.
Tor held a talon up to shield himself from the glare, which almost caused him to bump into the commander. Upon exiting the gate, more pony guards stationed themselves outside, lining the terminal to Celestia's yacht. Banners fluttered from their lances, kept taut from the gusts so high up. The dull din of air traffic was all around, from the idle buzz of engines to the sharp whine of air breaks, isolating this part of the tower from the world.
“You have an impressive entourage, commander” Tor nodded to a passing guard, who returned the gesture.
The commander smiled. “It is, My Lord. We are the best of the best." His voice was proud. "He's not here, but Captain Arondight gives us some of the most rigorous training regimens — We're ready for anything."
“I see,“ Tor noted, keeping an eye on the troops. They were living statues, only their eyes trailing Tor.
Tor continued: "You traveled well, I hope?”
“Like flying on a cloud, sir. Apollonia is one of the fastest ships in the world. We crossed the Celestial Sea in three weeks, you can check our records!”
“I see, very impressive.” This lad should've been in the navy with his enthusiasm.
They rounded a corner on the platform. The wind was a little harder here, and Tor's banyan wrestled the air. Instinctively, Tor whiteknuckled the nearest rail, hoping he wouldn't bend it with his grip. But even with his fear of heights, he couldn't stop his beak from dropping at the visage of Apollonia. It was the embodiment of the sun, with golds and brasses trimming it from bow to stern. The hull was a sleek clipper shape with a raised quarterdeck, all cherry wood. Its balloon was sleek in shape and pearly white, its glare almost smothering the painted sun on its sides.
On the weather deck, deck ponies went about their business, and as the party boarded, drew their attention briefly. It was a little odd seeing a foreign party joined with guards.
“Welcome to the Apollonia, My Lord,” the commander announced as they centered themselves on the deck. “I hope you and the princess have a wonderful time.”
“I will do what I can, sir,” Tor replied. “I’m sure I’m in capable… what do you say? Hooves?”
The commander chuckled. “Of course, My Lord.” He bowed and took his leave, and approached a pair of guards guarding a hatch on the quarterdeck. The commander stepped inside.
Expecting the royal herself to emerge at any moment, Tor stuffed his arms into his sleeves, a vizir's pose. After a few more minutes, he changed his pose, more dashing and heroic. He rested his left talon on his golden hilt, while letting the other hang off his belt, hooking the thumb over the leather. He swore he heard one of the deck ponies snickering.
The hatch swung open, and Tor tensed, staring dead towards the doorway. First, the commander emerged. Tor’s breathing accelerated, anticipating the first steps of Celestia walking out the door. However, seeing a silhouette of another pony only made him more anxious.
Celestia was powerful, and respected the world over — Tor had is reservations about her, and how she handled the world stage, but he generally kept these thoughts to himself. But I can't simply ignore the fact that she'sright here!
In anticlimax, it wasn't Celestia but Golden Sunshine. Her little braids bounced while she approached Tor with a sour look. She caught herself and flashed a smile to Tor, who nodded back. She kept quiet as she took to his side, doing her best to keep her scowl from growing again.
Before Tor could speak a word to the mare, an entourage of gold emerged from the belly of the ship. A small team of attendants and guards filed out, lining the deck in Tor's direction. Tor's ears flopped back, unsure how to feel. But he couldn't get a thought in as a grand visage emerged from within, power and magnificence beaming from her like rays of sunshine. Tor’s eyes were glued to her, with her technicolored mane leading a regal, alabaster alicorn: Princess Celestia.
There was no need to announce the presence of Princess Celestia. The elegant voice of a guard gleefully expelled a swath of titles in her favor, but was eclipsed by Celestia’s approach from below. Her coat gleamed in the sun, her gold adornments shimmered like the stars, and Tor was swept up in her glory. He had seen her plenty of times from afar, but nothing could prepare him to witness the elegance of the beautifully sculpted equine.
As she approached, Tor could not avert his gaze from Celestia’s eyes. It was as if her irises warped the world into it, like the universe was made to bend to her will. The closer she got, Tor saw his reflection, his beak agape as her eyes showed his humbled form.
The world seemed to freeze. A sense of maternal love embraced him. It was as if he was being caressed in his mother’s arms one last time. He could not help but smile fondly.
What charm is she employing on me? Tor wondered. Was this just because of the centuries of her existence? Was this how she exerted her authority? Such love, such serenity, such —
“Sir?” A collected voice broke him of his concentration. Tor reached up and patted himself down, confirming that yes, he does exist. Looking around, the whole deck stared at him, including Golden Sunshine standing next to him. Her cocked eyebrows suggested she was more amused by his performance than anything else.
“Sir?” Celestia asked. “Are you in need of a physician?”
Tor shot his brow up, widening his eyes in alarm. “Oh, no, no, no! I’m perfectly fine. Just… admiring the scenery?” A warm feeling crept up around his cheeks. He was reminded of a saying from his early days as a young army officer: “Don’t be a cock-up!”
Celestia chuckled. “I agree! The morning graces your city in a way that I’ve never seen anywhere before.”
Tor mentally exhaled. Dodged the arrow there.
“It’s wonderful to meet you, sir.” She gestured to herself with a wingtip. “I am Princess Celestia, and I welcome you to my humble vessel.” She then pointed to Tor. “May I ask the name of my guest?”
“Quite so, Your Majesty — I am Lord Tor Razorwing.” He bowed deeply, but couldn’t help but muse at the outlandish statement about Celestia’s airship. It was far from humble — it was a floating jewel, held aloft with varnished cherry and polished gold.
His bow gracefully transitioned to a stance on all fours and his entourage fell in tow, their gear clanking as they landed. He continued: “I’m taking the place of the Consul this morning. She was forced to address an internal issue, and I apologize for her absence.”
“A very unfortunate matter, considering it was so sudden.” Celestia smiled, but her eyes wandered, disappointed. She seemed bothered by Maia’s absence. “Looking ahead,” she continued, “this is a prime opportunity to get to know you, sir. I’ve been looking forward to putting a face to the name.”
Tor shot his brow up, curious as to what Maia had said about him to garner such attention. “I’m honored, Your Majesty. I had no idea I was regarded!”
“Oh yes,” Celestia replied. “The consul had lovely words about your performance with the zebra — It’s always prudent to have an elegant orator to relay such important information to an… what is it she said? Inflamed party of dignitaries?”
Tor laughed, placing a talon on his chest. “Embassador Azikiwe’s party definitely had its vigor. However, their hospitality is unmatched. They’re some of the finest individuals I’ve been blessed to meet — ever you need a place to settle down in the future, it’s in their stead you would find no better hosts.”
“I agree! Though, the savannah air does terrors to my coat. Perhaps somewhere a little less dry?” Celestia smiled, and Tor did the same. “But for now,” she continued. “We have another issue to address. Maia had mentioned she had a schedule for me. Since she is unavailable now, I was hoping you would give the surprise?”
Tor hid panic behind his smile. “Oh yes! The itinerary for today! What we have scheduled is” — Before he could complete his sentence, a guard on his left flank handed him the leather-encased documents. Tor untied the thongs and sifted through a few pages.
“We don’t have much in the way of anything strenuous,” He relayed, reading through the schedule. “We have a small scientific exposition down on the Keloni Plains, just outside the city. We’ll also be guests at an event. A demonstration of sorts.” He slid his eyes over the text and nodded: Maia's showcase. “From there, we have scheduled a lovely grass-side banquet.” Tor pulled the package down, beaming warmly. “I would say it’ll be a delightfully easy day for you, Your Majesty.”
She exhaled, relieved. “Such a relaxing day — I don’t normally enjoy such pleasantries. We had better make our way! Don’t want to be too late, now do we?” Celestia turned to a guard next to her, requesting immediate disembarkment.
Returning to Tor: “Care to join me on the helm?” She leaned in closer, as if trying to hide a deadly secret. “I love pulling out of dock.” An adventurous mare at heart.
“Oh, Your Majesty,” Tor exclaimed, growing nervous. “If you don’t mind, I would love to take a closer look at the weather deck before accompanying you. It’s just such an impressive piece of craftsponyship!”
Celestia nodded. “Of course, sir. Please, make yourself comfortable.” Before Tor could get a chance, Celestia’s front knees buckled before him as she made a graceful bow. He bowed right along with her, playing it off as a sudden stroke of circumstance. They shared a giggle before parting. She retreated up the gold-trimmed stair leading to the helm, and he toward the bow. Tor instructed his guards to stay at the stair.
Sunshine followed Tor, not before she and the princess exchanged glares that could melt a glacier.
Tor made his way along in silence, sensing a maelstrom of frustration boiling from Sunshine. Though he wasn’t aware of the nature of their disagreement, he could not help but grin. The eternal struggle between the wise master and the dutiful student transcends all cultures.
He stopped near the bowsprit and wrapped a talon around a ratline secured on the railing. He turned to Golden Sunshine, who was staring daggers at the horizon.
“You’re not exactly in the best of moods,” Tor observed.
Sunshine blew a stray strand of mane out of her eyes. “Very astute. Did you also know the sky is blue?”
Tor raised a brow. “If you’re going to be like that, I’ll just throw you off the side.”
She scowled at him in mock disbelief. “My word! Here I thought you were civilized!”
He chuckled darkly. “Tis only a facade, I’m afraid.”
Sunshine simply shook her head, sporting the slightest of smirks. Tor was relieved to see her relax.
“You wouldn’t have followed me if it weren’t important, Miss Sunshine.” Tor segued. “Is your frustration normally so acidic?”
Sunshine leaned against the railing and groaned. “Don’t get me started. She does nothing but hinder any progress I want to make.”
Tor raised a brow, his curiosity piqued. “Progress?”
“I want to look into our history, she holds me back. Get more information on your people, she holds me back.” She scowled. “Learn about her sister” — she paused — “she holds me back.”
Tor nodded, his brow crinkling in thought. “Sounds like a lot.”
“Lord Stonetalon mentioned something called the ‘Purge,’” Sunshine replied. “I’ve never heard of it before. He was willing to give me a few more inklings as to what it was, but he was trying to keep it hush-hush.”
Tor sighed sharply, slowly placing a talon on his forehead.
Sunshine continued: “I didn’t know that Nightmare Moon was an actual pony until I goaded him enough about it. We don’t have any solid proof that it was an event back in Equestria — it’s perceived as a myth.”
Gaius, you blabberbeaked buffoon! Tor lamented. “I hope to the Six you didn’t mention his name when asking the Princess about it.”
Looking back to Tor, Sunshine gave an incredulous smirk. “Please, sir. I’m not so quick to spill the beans!” She then grew more serious. “This stuff is sensitive, and could hurt our political relationship. Besides, I actually enjoy visiting” — She trailed off, silently mouthing the foreign word momentarily — “Sargraaf, I’ll have you know.”
Tor noted her usage of his people’s name for his land with some surprise. Nice pronunciation, he thought. Rolling the R a little much. Tor pressed: “What were you told?”
Sunshine tapped a forehoof on the railing as she took a moment to sift through her thoughts. “Nothing too much. It involved stopping some sort of cult of the Nightmare. Apparently it was enough to hurt Equestria, and demand the direct intervention of Celestia — I can only wonder why we don’t know about it back home.”
Brushing a forefinger under his beak, Tor remarked, “There are many things that are forgotten — or hidden — by the people, either by mistake or by purpose. The Purge, well… from our accounts, it nearly caused a terrible crisis in Equestria.”
“If anything, she’d use that point in history to educate us, not keep us in ignorance!”
“Your leader is a very empathetic creature,” Tor explained diplomatically. “She may be doing it for reasons to protect you.” If it is empathy, he mused. Or just to continue to obfuscate.
“Or keep me back still!” Sunshine stamped her tapping hoof down in frustration. “What’s the point of being her student if she doesn’t let me explore?”
Tor shook his head and raised a friendly talon. “Now, now, miss. Maybe when you have the chance, leap on the opportunity to ask her about it.”
“She won’t listen me — I know her too well. I’m prying into her past. Her upsets! Her failures! Maybe she doesn’t want anypony to know where she screwed up?”
“Be that as it may,” Tor said. “I hope you didn’t reveal much about what you know. Or, at the very least, had an excuse to at least know the name.”
“Of course! I just said I saw a book in Lord Stonetalon’s personal library, but had no time to investigate. It had her cutie mark on it and came up with some association.”
“How coincidental — He actually does have a book with her cutie mark on it. It’s part of a multiple volume historical compendium. I believe he pointed it out to me once...”
The mare raised an inquisitive brow. “The Encyclopedia Equannica?”
“I believe?”
“Even better!” Sunshine trotted in place in celebration. Moments after settling down, she shook her head. “It won’t get her off my back, though — Sometimes, I wish I could just run away and do my own research.”
“Perhaps,” Tor replied, raising the finger under his beak matter-of-factly. “When you graduate from the rank of ‘student,’ hmm?”
Sunshine blew another stray strand of hair from her eyes, still with reservations. “We’ll see.”
They looked ahead as the engines roared to life. The crew on deck shouted nautical vernacular, throwing lines from the ship and working instruments on the deck. (Tor found it amusing the crew was spouting such vocabulary on a flying vessel.) As final preparations were in order, Tor looked behind him to see the princess looking from the port side of the vessel with a posture of reserved fascination. As Apollonia began to gently leave the skydock, her technicolored mane refused to bow to the winds.
Tor, on his end, grasped hard on the railing, and tightened his grip on the ratline. He tried to keep his movements subtle, but learned of his failure from Sunshine’s chuckles.
“A gryphon who hates flying?” Sunshine asked, amused.
Tor replied brusquely: “Hush, cur!”
Sunshine playfully chided him with a laugh.
The vessel groaned like an ancient sea beast as she disembarked. The rush of the cool air ruffled the feathers on Tor’s face, eliciting a shiver down his spine. Looking behind him, the Spire slowly revealed its carved grand facade. As they moved, the windows gleamed with sunshine.
The air buzzed with traffic around Apollonia. How anyone navigated these skies was a marvel to Tor. They passed vessels rivaling the size of Celestia’s yacht, and others only a mere fraction of its length. As grand as they were, the prize for elegance could easily be awarded to the Apollonia.
Tor left the bow and slowly made his way to the helm, careful not to look down. Sunshine stayed behind, still amused. While following the ship’s length, Tor noted the beauty and tidiness of the weather deck — the wood was glazed with an everlasting shine, and the gold forever gleaming. It was in stark contrast to Apollonia’s gruff, hard-working crew. Magic, he concluded, kept the vessel pristine.
Tor beckoned his entourage with him as he begrudgingly climbed to the helm. He gazed up to see Celestia concerned.
“I hope you’re doing alright, sir?” She asked.
Tor realized he had a deathgrip on the railing, and eased his talon before he dug his nails in. “Of course I am! There is no other place I’d rather be!” His stomach turned and knotted with every hesitant step. He was afraid to pass out from the stress. Oh, Six above — What I would do for a touch of the earth!
Celestia met him at the top of the stair. Before she could utter a word, Tor gave a dismissive wave.
“Bad leg, Your Majesty,” he lied. “Always acts up with pressure change.” His ears flopped down when he looked behind him, only to see that his epic journey only took ten steps.
“An unfortunate circumstance,” Celestia replied empathetically. “Reaching the Senate chambers must be arduous for you!”
“I would say it was worth the climb, but we have ways around walking.” The Spire elevators certainly do their work, Tor thought. He righted himself on the ground, committing to walk on all fours. “I hope I haven’t been missing much?”
“I’m sure this is all average to you, senator. I’m just admiring your lovely city.” For a moment, Celestia inspected Tor and his guards’ form with a sheepish grin. “My Lord, please — There’s no need to be so formal, you can stand tall.”
Tor pushed himself up and brushed his talons off with a quick, light clap. He instinctively rested his talon on his sword’s hilt. The guards joined him, their accoutrements clanking about.
“I’m thankful, Your Majesty.” He was. As much as he hated to admit it, walking around on his talons made his arms sore. He idly rubbed his left arm.
“Now, sir, before we proceed,” Celestia continued. “We’re going to need directions to your Kaloni Plains.”
“Of course, Your Majesty, of course.” Tor looked to one of the guards, gesturing his head to deal with the request. Wordlessly, the agent strode over to the helmspony while Tor and Celestia began walking aft. The second guard slowly trailed behind them.
“I hope that your time here has been satisfactory, Princess?” Tor inquired. His heart pounded as they approached the railing. He focused on Celestia to distract himself.
Celestia nodded. “More so than I imagined, sir.” She took a moment to continue, enamored by the city passing below. Tor followed her gaze to the river Gasper that flowed through the city. Its waters glinted like a ribbon of silk.
“When last I was here, Stoneanchor was nothing but a twinkle in Alana’s eye. A city to rival the old republic capital, she would like to say.” She turned to Tor with a warm smile. “She would be proud to see how it turned out.”
“You knew Alana?” Tor’s ears perked. The stories and myths that surrounded her served to inflate her significance, obscuring the real eagless. What glory! He mused. What glory it is to meet a titan to rival Celestia!
“She was a gentle soul, different than many at her time. Though, a lion when tasked with nation building. War wasn’t exactly her cup of — oh, what is it called — Melah?”
Tor nodded with a smile. “Yes, Your Majesty. I do not know if you’ve ever had a taste, but, I recommend it in small doses. Quite strong to someone unfamiliar with its properties.”
Celestia chuckled. “I must agree! Whatever’s put into that, I will never know. Though, if I recall correctly, we always had a cup from a certain stock… Gel’ha? Gel’cha?”
“Gel’tha, Your Majesty,” Tor was honored to hear the name uttered. “The tea garden is still in operation — I can procure a barrel or two for you, if you wish.”
“Perhaps. Considering such time that’s passed…” She sighed in nostalgia. “Alana was quite the gryphon, My Lord. Humble, kind, honorable? To be honest, when your people were just warring states, I had warlords strutting into my throne room with such a bombastic display and nothing to show for it. ‘Strength and honor’ was such a common shout during feasts, I was afraid it would catch on with my own guards.”
“It was so different back then, Your Majesty,” Tor defended. “It was of its time. Very different.”
“Very different, yes! Savage, brutish — Nothing but testosterone and wine. I was happy when Alana bowed to me the moment she walked into my throne room. Respect in my own home!” She smiled fondly. “You’d be surprised how the world was centuries ago. Nothing like how it is now.”
Tor felt backhanded as she described his people — It was common for his own to describe themselves as barbaric, but a foreign dignitary? He couldn’t help but be a little offended. However, he kept those feelings to himself.
“I can only imagine, Your Majesty.” He smiled, to remind himself to be on his best behavior. “The zebra still had an empire bordering our lands, the minotaur had not yet united under the First Strategos — It feels like an age of myth.”
Celestia smiled and nodded. She looked away like she was gazing through time, her eyes darting to and fro at the city moving around them. It was almost as if she were remembering the fields wiped clean. “Yes. The world was much different. Simpler. No steam machines, no cloudless chariots...” She looked back to Tor. “But that was then, and this is now!”
Tor nodded, half-bowing at the same time. “Very much so.”
Apollonia groaned and creaked as she turned in the wind. To orient herself to their destination, she orbited the glimmering Spire. Tor’s thoughts wandered briefly to Gareth. His heart sunk as he mulled through memories from the old province, thinking of their childhoods together. Gallivanting through rice fields, climbing on Gareth’s barnhouse, drinking at the Crooked Crane...
Happiness morphed into pain. His ears flopped back against his skull. Is this what the Veronian Code does to us? Divide us? How did the Confederacy last past the first century?
Tor was mostly ignorant to the power of his privilege. But with his friend’s continued advancement, Tor could finally see how powerful this law was. Gareth may have been conflicted, but Tor could tell that he placed priority on his position before his friendship. Would this happen to the next gryphon he sponsored? Was he making his enemies through kindness? What could he have done better?
Tor sighed, dejected. I failed you, old friend.
As Stoneanchor shrunk in distance, Tor made his way to the helm with the Princess, overlooking the rest of the weather deck. He did what he could to suppress his anguish. Apollonia’s bowsprit pointed towards a gathering of visitors on the plains. Steam bellowed from stacks unseen, and the distinct odor of industry overtook the air.
“Your visit was quite the surprise, Your Majesty,” Tor started, mentally shaking himself out of his funk. “To an outside observer, our performance could be seen as disorganized and unwieldy — Though, it’s far from the truth. We take pride in argument and conflict. The simple act of iron trading can give our discussions an unexpected heat.” He laughed, trying to hide his face behind a talon. “It’s a little embarrassing, but I suppose it gets the job done.”
Celestia looked to him with a subtle smile. “Long ago, my people engaged in such spirited debates. You’re a learned individual, sir, so you aren’t a stranger to the histories; Our old tribes once had a democracy much like your own. We don’t seem to have such a grasp on it as you do with such gusto.”
Tor nodded wordlessly. Celestia continued: “My visit is predicated on Maia’s enthusiastic request.” Wistfully, she looked ahead. “She has such spirit when she speaks of an evolution of the relationship between our nations — There is no fear when she speaks to me about the future. Hope resonates.” She turned back to Tor with an uncertain tone. “It’s almost as if something comes. Something I can’t see.”
Tor attempted assuage her feelings with a lopsided grin. “I’m at a loss, Your Majesty. She certainly has… as some would say, spunk. She has faith in all of us and our future. We are powerful — It’s only natural that we seek solace with those who collaborate in such affairs.”
Celestia nodded, mulling over Tor’s words. Tor wondered if she was internally admonishing him for implying such comparison. Perhaps an ancient being like her had difficulty fathoming the association.
Celestia simply responded, “Let us admire what we have.”
The Apollonia made a sweeping turn around the field, drawing the gaze of many onlookers. The fair itself was contained in a circular palisade, with a central arena and fence line defining quadrants within. Draperies and flags of all kinds fluttered in the wind, advertising itself to the world in a cacophony of color.
The helmspony guided Apollonia to a landing port after a shout from a deckhoof at the fore. The air soon roared with an expulsion of hot steam from the fore of the turbines, the ship groaning with reduced speed. Below deck, Tor could hear the turning of cranks and wheels, and looking overdeck, spied the lowering of the solid steel landing apparatus. An exchange of lines were thrown to gryphons on the ground, and they proceeded to pull Apollonia safely back to earth with a gentle thump.
Tor sighed loudly, feeling like a thousand pounds of armor slid off his shoulders. His skin tingled upon the realization that the ground was much closer to him. Before realizing that he completely unlatched his hidden emotions, he heard a soft giggle from Celestia. His whole body quickly became a furnace. The jig was up.
Celestia took Tor under an enormous wing, taking him by surprise with its size. “After you, milord. It seems like you need to disembark faster than I should.”
Tor bellowed a laugh. “Your Majesty,” he began. “It would pleasure me if we descended together. Your company would be missed if I left the deck on my own.”
“You Razorwings!” She mused. “You know how to sweet-talk! How could I be so foolish to leave without my liaison?”
Tor’s tail grew stiff with the compliment.
With her blessing, they walked down onto the deck together. Tor strode with confidence, happy to be on the earth.
On the main deck, both nation’s guards joined them. Tor’s congressional guard stood a head and a half taller and far more inconspicuous compared to the flashy pony guards. Tor was amused — Was the pomp a way to further cement her power? He could only guess.
Golden Sunshine accompanied Celestia and Tor with a less contemptuous demeanor, keeping to Celestia’s side. Calm as she was, a phantom lighting storm still brewed between them. Sunshine had a long time to go before she knew how to keep her emotions in check. Celestia, however, championed the diplomat’s poise. A stern gaze to her student straightened Sunshine up.
Celestia’s various aides and servants swarmed to the sides, all adorned in royal finery. The abundance of golds and solar logotypes were a little too much for Tor, happy to be wearing earth tones under his black banyan.
The excursion party disembarked with coordinated cadence. A claustrophobic air of formality strangled Tor. He felt the need to retreat to a small pub where he could play Virtues all night. Politics: A tiring profession!
A nagging in the back of his brain tugged at him — Insecurity? Uncertainty? Though, as he did many times before, he straightened himself, pushing aside the left side of his banyan and rested his talon on the gold saber. He drew in a great breath and mentally laid the bricks in line.
You are a dignitary of the great Confederacy of the Gryphons, Tor! Just because you’re around the leader of the most influential nation on the Six’s Globe doesn’t change a thing. He felt like his words fell short, but if he got this far, it’ll be just like that week in Prance.
Ah, those accents…
A small crowd, mostly the wealthy and extravagant, gathered at the end of the gangway, anxious for a peek at Princess Celestia. They ooh’d and ahh’d at her, beguiled by her exotic alicorn appearance. Before long, the guards, led by the blue-plumed commander, carved a path for the group to follow, causing the crowd to disperse. But Celestia was a subject hot on their tongues, and her name echoed around them.
The guards kept a solid perimeter in check as they proceeded. Passing under the shadow of each airship, there was no mistake to the extravagance laid on the hulls. Beautiful inlays of gold and brass lined keels and bows, woven in organic, sinuous patterns, mimicking waves of sea and contrails in sky. Attendants dutifully buffed these vessels with the unmistakable harsh scent of polish, allowing their ships to flaunt their beauty.
Tor smirked. But they were not Apollonia.
Away from the port stood a broad, oaken archway with more fluttering flags. Under it stood a tall, imposing zebra, followed by a group of aides. He was dressed in a red velvet justaucorps, a popular design worn by denizens of Stoneanchor’s salons, stitched to fit his muscular barrel. As they approached, he stepped out from under the shade to reveal the Paisley brocade spread across the garment. A zebra-sized sword hung from his midsection, its crossguard made of steel and its scabbard adorned with bands of lapis lazuli.
“Your Majesty,” the zebra announced. As he bowed, his loosely tied cravat bounced with his motion. The rest of his group bowed as well. “I am Corus Ren, master of ceremonies.” As he rose, he turned his head to Tor, almost surprised. “And My Lord? Apologies, I was expecting the Consul.”
Tor rose a talon gently, casually dismissing the surprise. “She is indisposed, currently. A last minute change. Don’t let it diminish your exhibition, however. I believe I’m speaking for both of us” — He gestured to Celestia — “by saying that we are pleased to be in attendance.” Celestia nodded with a matronly smile, letting Tor take the lead.
“Then, please, my esteemed guests — the exhibition awaits.” He outstretched a foreleg of invitation, and a smile only fit for a merchant plastered across his muzzle.
As Tor and Celestia walked past him, Ren accompanied. He couldn’t keep his wandering eyes from Celestia’s visage. “We have been awaiting your appearance all day, Your Majesty.” He paused momentarily, as if remembering to breathe, and returned his eyes to Tor. “And present company, naturally.”
Before even Tor could place a quip, he was swiftly beaten by Golden Sunshine with a succinct “Of course,” laden with sarcasm.
As they continued into opening court of the exhibition, Tor couldn’t help but be reminded of the zebra’s name. Corus Ren, a more gryphon name than zebra, he realized. But it’s origin? It couldn’t be because of —
“The pamphlet!” He exclaimed. The entourage peered at Tor, alarmed by his sudden outburst.
“The pamphlet?” Celestia asked.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Tor replied. “Our host is an inventor himself — are you not, mister Ren?” He mused with a small grin — he expected one of his guards to magically procure the advert Gawdyna gave him prior. “You were toting some sort of… Oh, it looked like a crossbow without it’s laithe.”
Ren guffawed, his laughter echoing into the court. His assistants seemed to be contractually obligated to match Ren’s as they augmented his laughter. “Now, that’s a line I’ve not heard before! Say, My Lord — you haven’t happened to have dabbled in advertising?”
Tor smirked in response, albeit with reservation to Ren’s exaggerated jocularity.
Ren continued without Tor’s reply. “Yes, My Lord. I am the very same Corus Ren, maker of the revolution of combat. With the power that will be revealed here, the Confederacy, and — may I even say, Equestria — will be made a far safer place after my demonstration today.”
He slid his eyes to Celestia. “You will be there, I hope?”
Celestia nodded gracefully, an incredulous grin hiding behind sincerity. “I am only a guest here, but, I will make it a point to attend. Are we not here to gaze upon the next revolutions of the world? You’re but a step forward, mister Ren.”
Tor smirked. And as if only Razorwings talked sweet!
Realizing that Celestia was addressing him directly, Ren barely stifled a schoolboy giggle. “You flatter me, Your Majesty!” He bowed with flair, or, at least, with as much flair a quadruped could possibly perform. “You come to the right place to gaze upon the future. Come! Let us proceed!”
As the group resumed, Celestia leaned over to Tor, whispering, “Quite the performer, no?”
Tor grunted unceremoniously. “Huckster, more like.” They shared a chuckle.
They began a grand tour past many spectacles: A demonstration of a speaking telegraph, an updated design of the difference engine, models of aircraft without balloons, improved models of locomotives, industrial processes, and many more.
The morning waned into the afternoon, sucking time away. Over the course of their tour, a particular attraction took Tor’s attention.
Every time he would pass it, he would be fixated on what was known as a crawler. A four-wheeled, motorized carriage, powered with what looked like a miniature locomotive engine.
What a machine! Tor marvelled. It was a basic in this state, only a frame and an internal combustion engine, but the possibilities, he knew were there. It also demonstrated to him a viable alternative to being in an airship.
“I want one of these,” Tor spoke aloud, breaking himself from the cycle of thought. His talon stroked one of the wheels, thick and studded with cartoonishly large steel hobnails for traction. He mused this could have served him well many times on the frontier. A advertisement behind the machine further fueled his imagination, illustrating an armored gryphon onboard with an adventurous smile on his face.
He looked to Celestia briefly, her thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. Contemplative. Perhaps… unsure?
“That makes one of us,” Celestia noted after a moment. She turned back to Tor, grinning to deflect her pensiveness. “Were I to employ this machine, I feel like I would scare my subjects, and not to mention the racket it would cause in Canterlot!”
“But, wouldn’t you like to give your royal carriage pullers a break every-so often?” Tor asked. Celestia seemed pensive, shrugging idly in response.
“They find the job to be a prestigious one,” she explained, idly gesturing with a wingtip. “Were I to replace them, they would likely consider it a shame. I want all of my ponies to have a good life. Why would I want to cause them hardship when all they want is happiness?” She smiled softly. “I love my subjects as if they were my own children; I want what’s best for them.”
Tor nodded, his thoughts wandering to his prior discussion with Golden Sunshine: Rights: What use are they if there is no possible definition?
His suspicion of Celestia’s words drew his attention from the crawler. If your ruler wants what’s best for you, what stops them from convincing you that what you don’t want is what you want? It took gryphons fifteen bloody years to come to the conclusion that it isn’t what your rulers determine as the good, but the individual. But, he concluded, that is another culture. A different way of life. He is no monarch — arguably a benevolent oligarch — and also not a pony.
Tor looked to the equine guards, who were steadfast maintaining the perimeter. This was probably a simple life for them, he thought.
Since when was the last time Celestia declared war? Four centuries ago? These guardsponies are all bark, no bite. He chuckled to himself. Lest we have someone like Golden Sunshine here rock the boat, these guards will never draw blood. It was a moot even consider anything of the sort — The world revered the matron Celestia. There was nothing harder than trying to flip a mountain on to its tip, and Celestia was that mountain.
“My Lord,” a little voice squeaked. He looked down to see Golden Sunshine looking up to him. “You’re occupied.” She pointed him towards the rest of the group, where Ren beckoned them further into the exhibition. Ren had taken Celestia’s ear and began to talk a storm into it, Celestia enraptured by his orations about the achievements around them.
Sunshine had a notepad hovering in front of her, suspended in her magic. Sketches and notes adorned the pages. She had been documenting a plethora of the machines here, perhaps as a way to bring a few back home for study.
Tor nodded, waving the cobwebs out of his mind. “I’m sorry, Miss Sunshine. I don’t know what struck me.”
“It looked like you were at first fancying the prospect of motorized carriages, and then our guards.” She threw him a lopsided smile. “I don’t know which is more interesting.”
“You’re funny,” Tor said bluntly. He continued forward to join the rest of the group. “I’m just… musing, is all.”
“There’s no reason why you can’t admit your interest in the best of the royal guard. They can be very pretty.” Sunshine twisted her head to make eyes at a brown colt marching in front of them. “Especially you, hello…”
Tor grunted in response. “Right,” he noted under his breath. “Pretty. That’s the perfect word I’d use for them.”
“What do you mean?” Sunshine asked.
Tor sighed. “I mean that your guards are trinkets.”
Sunshine furrowed her brow. “They’re the best in the world. Of all the creatures to underestimate them, you were the last in my mind.”
“Is that so?” Tor challenged, keeping his voice below the din of the crowd. “Standing around to make your kind the most civilized? The most powerful?”
“Need I remind you that we, at least, are powerful?” Sunshine, too, joined in his quieted tone. “Example: Fifty years ago, it was Equestria that helped break the siege at Carkun and helped you in your time of need. You were on the brink of collapse.”
Tor chuckled mockingly. “Right — And you so expertly forget it was a three month siege that softened the walls? That after those months of begging Celestia help from the minotaur invasions did she send but a single battalion of her gold-clad soldiers?” He waved at Sunshine dismissively. “More truths forbidden, I see.”
“They saved the day,” Sunshine rebuked, her scowl softening to Tor’s words. “They broke the walls and captured the strategos Nika.”
“It was we and our zebra allies who pursued Nika. It was we who were raided by Nika for three years. It was we who encircled Nika — It was she” — He thrust an accusing thumb at Celestia —“who took the mantle of victory for Nika’s defeat.” He exhaled sharply. “How could you not respect her? She’s the embodiment of grace and power.”
Tor then opted to evoke Sunshine’s previous disagreements with Celestia: “This under-taloned victory only helps solidify her place in the world — why be anchored by your failures when you can be surrounded by your conquests?”
“You are too presumptuous,” Sunshine replied. Though, it was as if she too couldn’t be bothered to believe it.
“One can hope,” Tor stated. Sunshine opened her mouth to address his statement, but she decided to stay silent. The intense stare that she gave Tor subsided, only for her be pensive. She turned away from him to look back at the guard she pointed out prior.
The group approached an archway leading into another portion of the exhibition, with the brown stallion keeping vigil. After they were clear to pass through, the guard bowed to Celestia with an elegance that Tor compared to a circus clown. He expected the guard to honk his nose and dance about after Celestia nodded to him, as if giving evaluation for the performance.
Tor grimaced. He didn’t hide it from Sunshine.
She is a leader, not a god, he thought. She is an equine, only establishing her place upon this earth by the horn on her head and the wings on her sides. He looked to his person, his eyes fixated on the golden basket hilt that glittered on his side. He too found himself in a hierarchy labelled by uncommon features.
He wrapped his wings around himself, uncomfortable in his realization. He turned his head to avoid the space it occupied, only to see one of his guards standing stalwart. He stood not on his hind legs, but on all fours. Tor turned again to see his other escort. He balled a fist under his makeshift feathery cloak, a scowl curling itself upon his brow. His eyes shifted to the dirt below him. Am I simply a prince by another name?
A shiver struck Tor and creeped down to his gut, causing his tail to curl under his legs. He resisted the urge to shroud his face behind his wings in shame. But, he rubbed his face to hide his frown, holding his forehead above his furrowed brow.
However, he would shelf his shame momentarily; As the group moved back into the sunlight, he noticed a sudden flash. He looked above his talon and noticed the flash from a silk banyan, bathing the alabaster Celestia in blue. A recognized a gryphon wearing it, but — It seems like we have a guest unaccounted for. He turned to Golden Sunshine, who was immersed in her notes.
“Miss Sunshine,” Tor called. She looked up to him wordlessly. “Would you come with me? We have a task.”
Sunshine raised a brow. “A task?”
Tor gestured to the gryphon ahead of them. “She shouldn’t be here. I would have been told otherwise. I need you to take Celestia’s attention away from her while I take the gryphon’s.”
Sunshine gazed at the gryphon in question. “What’s the problem? She just looks like an official.”
“I…” Tor hesitated, not wanting to go in depth about how it’s the senate’s position to deal with diplomacy. Nor how local politics is becoming more and more dangerous the longer he breathes. “Let’s just say we gryphons are particular about who joins us in official functions. Guests would be wise to make themselves known to the host — particularly, me.”
Sunshine mulled it over briefly. “Okay,” she agreed, with a determined look. “Let’s move.”
They squeezed through, excusing themselves as they bumped past dignitaries. Tor maneuvered himself next to the gryphon in blue while Sunshine did the same next to Celestia. Celestia jubilantly welcomed her student with a warm smile. Tor’s gryphon was less welcoming, barely containing disgust in her greeting to him.
It took a moment for Celestia to be immersed in her student’s inquiries, but Sunshine was able to pull her from the gathering, even able to capture Ren’s attention. Tor inspected the gryphon’s person, recognizing a silver hilt and saber; it was as he expected, a member of the forum. He also spied that same crossbow-like weapon hanging from a holster.
“You are brave, Decia. Diplomacy is the responsibility of the Senate,” Tor warned. “What are you doing here?”
She harrumphed in response. “We were simply checking up on the princess. Hoping she is well accommodated.”
Tor growled faintly. “How you dishonor yourself with such a violation, forumite.”
“Ironic, considering you set the precedent.” She smiled slyly.
Tor nearly laughed. “I don’t need to explain myself to you, snake.”
“And you lash an insult? Gareth was true about your arrogance.”
Tor’s neckfeathers stuck up, and his ears perked. “He sent you?” As if betrayal could not have any harder a sting!
“He advised,” Decia quipped, her smile growing like Tor’s irritation. “But, it was not he who initiated an order.”
She would not be foolish to reveal who did. The conspiracy would only endanger her and her allies’ position. Tor’s heart began to beat a little faster, his frustration only building. The more he stood next to Decia, the more he felt like drawing his blade.
“The sooner you depart,” Tor continued. “The happier I will be.”
“Our peace has been given to the princess, but I think that my continued cooperation with you will be of benefit to one of us,” Decia concluded. She chided with another smirk. “Your impatience is most unbecoming of you, My Lord.”
Tor exhaled in frustration. Her impudence had not eased his conscience, but considering what he and his own were now open to doing, this move should have been expected.
“Fine,” Tor acquiesced. “But you will keep your distance henceforth. I don’t want your stench to spoil what show Corus Ren has in mind for the Princess.”
The party began to walk into the shadow of a makeshift arena that served as the center stage of the whole exhibition. Colorful advertisements on banners hung from the top of the rafters, gently fluttering in the breeze. Tor noticed that the one soon to come, hosted by Ren, obscured the identity of his invention, only showing an outline of the object. Beneath it, in golden lettering, a line proclaimed: “Future of Sparkpowder.”
Tor assumed this was merely a way to launch fireworks.
“Oh, I suppose,” Decia reluctantly agreed. A smug smile still planted on her beak. “Let you feel so superior and whatnot — It’s only natural for a tiercel in your place, is it not?”
Were this another time I would kill you where you stand, Tor grimaced. Before he could continue to comment to his opponent, Ren began to chime towards the group as a whole.
“I apologize for the inconvenience, but I only have a small box for the Princess and her select entourage.” He looked to Tor directly. “My Lord? You are expected up here as well.” Tor nodded, not before giving Dacia a side glance. She simply smiled and slid into the crowd separating from the main group.
Ren’s enthusiasm was to the point of detonation while led the entourage up a flight of steps. Not as able to accommodate the plethora of equine officials, there was enough for Tor, Celestia and Sunshine, alongside a few of the Princess’ aides. It was cozy, with seats sitting atop a silk rug. Wine and water stood chilled for their enjoyment. They took their seats, Celestia in the center of the trio, with Tor and Sunshine flanking her.
“To have you here is but the highest honor, Your Majesty,” Ren said, speaking above the growing din of the crowd. “As a preface, it is your people who have allowed for the impetus of this achievement. One of my closest partners on this project was, coincidentally, of the royal fireworks corps.”
Celestia squinted at him, reacting to a fact that Ren probably should have obscured. “Is that so?” She asked, barely hiding her scrutiny. “I have met many members of the corps, perhaps I could have a chance to meet this pony?” Menace hugged her inflections. Tor was unsure if Ren recognized it, or didn’t care.
Ren grew somber. “I apologize, Your Majesty. Star Flurry was put to rest two years into our experiments. A mixture of unstable sparkpowder caused his untimely demise. It was a miracle that we shared our calculations, or else this wouldn’t be possible! If anything, this was the culmination of his brilliance.” He flashed back to a satisfied grin.
Celestia returned her own, masking her enmity. “Indeed, mister Ren. I await what your demonstration shows us.”
“You will not be disappointed.” Ren looked down to the arena, the crowd growing. “But it seems that I am going to be needed soon, Your Majesty. I can’t wait to hear what you think after the demonstration!” Bowing swiftly, he made his way down back the way the group came up, his hooves clip-clopping against the wood deck.
The trio sat in silence, the noise of the crowd’s chatter filling the void. Tor felt a terrible awkwardness resonate as Celestia’s eyes intensely followed Ren down the steps. Tor nearly reached for the wine before Golden Sunshine piped up.
“Princess Celestia,” she began. “I have to appreciate the” — She paused momentarily to find a word — “adeptness of our hosts. They possess deftness to create from, what an outside observer would find nonsense, to an unheard of combination.”
Celestia was silent, hesitant. She let the silence grow pregnant as she crafted a response. “I agree, my student,” she concluded after too long. “I, too, am surprised at all times to see the Confederacy’s ingenuity in the face of such curious combinations.” She turned to Tor, who did not give him a look of disappointment, but of concern.
What are you doing? She seemed to ask. You step in places you aren’t meant to explore.
Tor could do nothing but shrug. His eyes conveyed wordlessly: Such is the way of ingenuity, Your Majesty.
Tor spied Ren out in the center of the field, and with him, a few gryphons. One, dressed in a red outfit as flamboyant as Ren’s. The other two were plain-clothed, one pulling a box from a cart. The other was holding a long, thin crate with it’s top removed. Straw packing material stuck out of the interior haphazardly. What was inside was placed delicately on a table that was sitting prior to the presenters’ appearance.
From this angle, Tor saw the crossbows without laithes. In fact, a number of them — One without a stock, a talonheld weapon. One with what could be described as the head of a pike shoved into its opening. A third as is, without any other additional trinkets.
What was different was the length of these weapons: The flight groove — or at least, what would be the flight groove — was elongated to a point that it would be at the middle of the chest, were he to stand with it. He had seen siege crossbows much longer than that, but these looked so much lighter and were so much thinner. But, he wondered, how would it even function?
And goodness, there’s not even a magazine!
At this point, Tor had an incredulous smirk on his face. Some marvel! He turned to Celestia, losing his incredulity. Her visage was at the point of cracking into a thousand pieces. Her gaze was stony and intense — were she able to completely obliterate the world at this very moment, she would. Looking past Celestia, Tor’s look of bewilderment was shared by Golden Sunshine. Their eyes met, and a mutual confusion was understood. He shrugged slightly. Might as well let all alone and focus on the demonstration.
Ren, in all the flash and spectacle he could afford, approached the crowd and delivered a dramatic bow.
“Greetings and salutations to my esteemed guests, colleagues and investors!” A small cheer rang out from the crowd, causing Ren to smile wider. “It is my greatest pleasure to introduce to you today, perhaps, one of the finest inventions here at my exhibition, designed by myself, Corus Ren, my esteemed partner Sovo Tann, and, our long-passed friend, Star Flurry, whom this demonstration is dedicated to.”
A plain-clothes gryphon came to the fore and held aloft the weapon. Ren announced: “I come to introduce to the rest of the world the coming apex of modern combat: The firearm!”
On queue, the other plain-clothes gryphon assistant put a wick to a fuse, and within a few moments, let loose a small display of fireworks. They burst and detonated with whimsical fury, which elicited an applause from the audience. Tor sat merely amused. Enough with the foolishness, he thought. If the forum likes to have firework shooters, fine. They can have them!
Ren continued, dropping into a tale about how long spears and swords dominated the field of battle, and other such stories that Tor, with all of his might, could not be bothered to focus on. Not only did Ren get the date of the Battle of Sorko’s Rift wrong, but even got the time of day. And the length of a pike is most certainly not over 12 meters long! Tor rolled his eyes.
“But I only say this for a reason of utmost relevancy,” Ren concluded after many minutes of recollection. “The Marquess of Blackstone would have survived were she not surrounded by a pike-and-bolt tercio formation, but perhaps one that involved more” — he paused for dramatic effect — “firepower.” A small groan spread across the audience, accompanied by a wry chuckle from Ren.
“But enough of my anecdotes, friends,” he continued. “History is for another time — such as now! Allow us to give you an eye for what formulates the combination of this device!”
Without hesitation, his plain-clothes assistants administered baubles to the audience. They moved about the crowd, eventually passing to Tor. As each item passed, Ren had an explanation.
First: a conical lead slug. The top of it reminded Tor of a closed beak. It was an elongated, thick thing, the length of a talon tip to the first knuckle. Grooves were carved into the side. On its bottom was a concave, tipped in metal, said to expand upon detonation of sparkpowder.
Second to be passed about was bag, and inside, tiny brass cylinders. Described to be placed on the nipple, they were caps filled with a type of fulminate. Tor was casually familiar with fulminate — they went into the whizz-bangers he played with as a child. His recollection was confirmed after Sovo attached one of these caps to the firearm and set it off. It’s crisp snap elicited an excited fright of giggles from those closest to the field.
Celestia sighed, and she shook her head. Tor saw her close her eyes, with a concerned scowl on her brow. She whispered a dour “Oh, no,” under her breath. Tor scowled too, afraid to ask her the issue.
Finishing up the round of introductions came a paper package, a cartridge, containing a slug and powder. The grains ground beneath the pressure of Tor’s fingers. He was tempted to pocket it, for further inspection. Golden Sunshine was carefully noting these items.
“This is a project that has lasted us more than a decade’s worth of testing,” Ren announced. “We referred to aeronautical studies, physics, chemistry of all kinds! In fact, my friend here, Sovo, was a long time aeronautical engineer with the Commercial Air Corps — His in-depth design of the slugs you’re passing about came after his devious design. Before, it was considered to use solid balls, but, what a lack of aerodynamic insight!” He looked to Sovo and they exchanged a rigorous guffaw.
“Aye,” Sovo agreed, his sing-song accent coming to the fore. “‘Twas a bit of a goof when yer balls could barely get past a fifty meter mark. But these slugs? Alongside the spiraling inside of the barrel, could easily exceed four hundred meters for accuracy. Much greater effective range than that of a Confederate crossbow!” This gained Tor’s attention. Having been a skirmisher in the service, he was familiar with the standard 150. 200 if you were an excellent shot. But, 400? That seemed impossible.
“But we are here to demonstrate something, and thus” — Ren gestured to one of the plain-clothes gryphons, who walked over to the box that was pulled from the cart — “we shall deliver.”
The assistant unlatched the box’s locks, causing the container to collapse. A gasp jumped from the crowd as an anxiety swept over it; It was a dummy adorned in minotaur armor. It’s cuirass was curved with mock musculature, embossed with pictures of mino legends and debossed with white meanders across the edges. Hanging below was an armored skirt sporting the same designs. On the shoulders and around the waist hung menacingly bright red pteruges.
A shiver shook through Tor. Memories of a long, old war haunted his mind. Though crude compared to the armors of the Confederate military, the minotaur made up what in lacked in strength. A pike could barely pierce it, and a sword was rebuffed with ease. Upon closer inspection, Tor recognized this armor as that of a commander’s — A distant roar echoed, and the glint of an axe briefly flashed his vision. He tried to steady his breathing. One. Two, he mentally recited. One. Two.
Never thought I’d see this armor again.
“Quite a formidable piece of equipment, eaglesses and tiercels,” Ren resumed. “Some here, no doubt, have seen terrors that can be contained within this legendary piece of metal.” His tone grew serious. “My compatriots and I had this marvel in mind for our defenders on the frontier. Too long have our blades bounced off of minotaur breastplates. Too long have our colonies been smashed by the horde. After today, we begin the final push to secure our ancient homeland.” He stood back, beckoning his compatriot to begin the demonstration.
Sovo grabbed a firearm from the table. Ren described the loading process as it occurred.
Sovo started by pulling up on a large, metal crank, which swung in an arc from front to back. It caused the block to emerge from the area described as the receiver. It stood perpendicular to the rest of the weapon. With no trouble, Sovo ripped through the paper cartridge and stuffed its contents in. Once that was all said and done, he procured a dowel and stuffed the whole combination down. He finished by popping a cap on the nipple on the underside of the block. He pushed the block back into the rest of the weapon, cocked the underside hammer, and considered it loaded.
The process took mere seconds. It was unlike using a windlass, which could take more than half a minute to load. Like a crossbow user, Sovo stood at attention, waiting for command. He looked to Ren, who beamed brighter than the sun. Tor was familiar with the procedure for the crossbow: Ren raised his arm, citing “present.” The gryphon began his aim. Instead of the verb “release,” Ren opted for another word, a noun.
Simply: “Fire.”
A moment after the command was loosened, a fire flashed across the audience, an earthquake shook the world, a lion roared, and a terrible snap lanced through the air. The whole audience shrieked in terror as this monstrosity bellowed like an ancient dragon. Some took cover behind the stands, stricken with fear. Others covered their ears, their eyes. Many were dumbstruck by what fowl expulsions this gun had.
The twinge of battle momentarily washed over Tor: his heart raced at a pace he was all too familiar with, his talons quivered under the power. His feathers ruffled stiff. His lungs took in what felt like hundreds of volumes of air. His ears shrieked like banshees in his skull.
But the evidence of the terror of this demonstration was half-formed in its delivery: A form, once standing tall with gleaming metals and greased leathers, now stood dilapidated and mangled. An ugly, burnt hole pierced through the front of the plate, singing the metal. But what resulted on the inverse side was more than enough to convince Tor of the power of powder: The exit of the round created an extensive wound, the plate blasted open, as if an animal tore through the belly to extract its innards — Metal shards lined the range behind it, and in an ethereal dance, cloth and straw lingered in the air, the last whispers of the detonation echoing in the distance.
This was a revolution, Tor realized, looking at a horrified Celestia — A revolution to topple the world.
“It is with strong resignation that Her Majesty Princess Celestia take leave of your stead,” Celestia’s chancellor declared days later.
Tor was stuck between a rock and a hard place. He and Maia were chatting before Hollyhock arrived, whose appearance jarred the normally stalwart Maia. He was a middle-aged and very stern looking stallion, with a permanent scowl stuck to his face, adding to the dread to his news.
“I don’t understand, Mister Hollyhock!" She exclaimed after recovering from a surprised stupor. "If there’s anything we can do to give Her Majesty a more favorable time here —” Hollyhock shot up a stern hoof.
“You're right, you don't understand. The demonstration of your firearm” — he regurgitated the word with vitriol — “is not only the antithesis of Her Majesty’s goals in our relationship, but it exposes one of Equestria's greatest secrets! You have to understand the effort Her Majesty exerted to keep this from the world at large!”
Maia recoiled, scowling. “Mister Hollyhock, please! This was an agreement made between private citizens of both our nations. The Confederacy was not complicit in this arrangement.”
“But your patronage defies that defense, Consul. Our trade agreements state explicitly that sparkpowder is to not be manufactured.” Hollyhock tilted his head to look over the golden spectacles balanced on the ridge of his snout. “You would be wise to distance yourself from this and align with Her Majesty’s recommendations. Forget this discovery and you will no longer find yourself in jeopardy of a possible embargo.”
“Embargo?” Both gryphons exclaimed. Maia’s frustration diffused first. She raised a soft talon to Tor, patting the air.
She continued: “Those are serious words, Mister Hollyhock! This weapon could spell years of security for both of us. When — and it is not if — when King Sombra returns from his exile and rises to conquer Equestria again, what will you have? Hope? Love?" Maia clenched a fist in front of her. "It was determination and will that birthed the Confederacy, and has kept our flame alive!"
“It was love that helped unite the Confederacy, Consul,” Hollyhock replied, pulling his snout back up. “It was the hope for a better tomorrow that inspired your generals and your soldiers. If you don’t understand this, then you have seriously misunderstood that which makes Equestria a much different place! If the basics of magic elude you, then so can the magics of friendship.”
He straightened himself. “I’m sorry, Consul. But this is how it is. The ball is in your court.”
Maia bristled, crossing her arms. Tor advanced towards Hollyhock with a friendly talon outstretched. “Sir, perhaps we can reconvene here in a few hours. Cooler heads will prevail.”
Hollyhock furrowed his brow. “No, My Lord. That’s not going to happen. This weapon is dangerous, and the Princess does not see this as a stabilizing entity. Your people have endangered the balance” — He stamped a hoof for emphasis — “of the eastern hemisphere.”
“On the contrary!” Tor rebuked. “We're defending ourselves and our way of life. We need the upper-talon against the minotaur — If anything, we'll be forging a better future for all of us!”
“You can’t be serious,” Hollyhock said plainly. “You don’t see the repercussions here? If this gets out, the blood of millions will be on your talons!” He paused to steady himself, taking a breath. “Her Majesty may be a pacifist, but she is not ignorant to war — Nor is she ignorant of your conquests of the minotaur.”
Tor's feathers began to fluff as his mouth twisted into a frustrated frown. “Then, it seems we’ve come to an impasse.”
“So it seems.” Hollyhock nickered. “Good day, milord, milady.” He nodded to each respectively and then bowed. He trotted with expert cadence to the door, sliding it open with his gold magic. He walked out without another word.
The door slid shut with an angry snap.
The air’s weight hung heavy on the gryphons' shoulders. Maia, her frame stalwart just moments prior, grew limp as she clambered onto her chair. She idly reached into her coat and dug out a small cigarillo case and naphtha lighter. She popped the case open and silently picked out a smoke, nipping the tip off its top. She expertly lit the end of the cigarillo, exhaling a bellow of smoke with a sad sigh.
Tor approached, placing a talon on her shoulder. She simply looked ahead, her face neutral.
“I’m ruined,” she muttered flatly. "Absolutely ruined."
Tor sported a lopsided grin. “I think I would call it a minor setback."
“Give my soul to Toke Gün!" She wiped a talon over her face with a groan. The talon landed on a twisted gold torc around her neck and started fondling it. "The forum is already on us for our fraternization with the lower classes — And after this, who knows what they’ll do?” She rested her cigarillo on a delicate ceramic ashtray and then pulled on a drawer next to her. Inside was a bundle of crinkled newspapers, their headlines huge and bombastic. Slamming them on the table, Maia sifted through the pages.
“Naturally, the forumite papers lambaste me — and by extension, you — but even those in our camp point their pikes at us. ‘A Folly Most Fowl!’” — She turned another page — “‘The Sun Sets!’” — Another, with Tor’s soft demeanor failing — “‘Weakness of the Senate!’ We didn’t win with our spat, Tor — And with this, we’re nothing but rich fledglings in the eyes of the forum!” More headlines passed to hammer the failure. Tor looked away in thought, keeping his talon on her shoulder.
“This will be..." Tor hesitated, finding his words. "Well, it’ll be a tough move for Celestia to make. Honestly? I think she's bluffing.”
“Bluffing? She’s…” Maia drifted off momentarily. She then gave Tor an incredulous look. “Tor, you can’t be serious!”
“Oh, I'm very serious!" Tor chuckled mockingly, his tail wagging as he remembered Celestia's face. “You should have seen her, Maia. The further we advanced into the exhibition, the more she grew in uncertainty. She squirmed like a fledgling on its first hunt — It was as if she knew that the future was set in stone with us, and that we had strode unhindered with the winds on our wings!"
“We opened Pandora’s Box.” Maia stood with a sigh, popping the cigarillo back into her beak. She made her way across the room to a small bar that lay nestled in a corner. Smoke lazily drifted while Maia poured amber from an ornate bottle into a tumbler.
There you go, Tor admonished. Thinking of her before us — Not even Maia has broken herself from Celestia's command.
“You said it yourself, Tor,” she continued after a sip. “The weapon blasted a hole through mino armor effortlessly. You could stick a couple of fingers into it! If that gets out to the rest of the world..." She sighed, her face contorting with uncertainty. "Hollyhock is right. We would shift the balance of power.”
"Is that a bad thing?" Tor asked. "In doing so, we would be creating a far more equal playing field. The weapons themselves are a huge force multiplier. However” — Tor gestured with an erect digit on his talon — “the weapons aren't the key to this. It’s sparkpowder. There are two nations that have access to the secret” — He then grinned wickedly — “and we're one of them.”
"You are correct, Tor." Maia shook her head. "But why is it worth changing the game? We've had unprecedented stability, and I don't feel comfortable leading the charge."
"The equines invented the steam engine. But it was gryphons who incorporated steam engines onto rudimentary balloons, beginning the age of the airship. If it weren't for that, we wouldn't have the trade networks we possess, nor the speed to visit the rest of the world. But from sparkpowder, we can fight the minotaur in ways we'd never considered, and we can bring the fight to them! They couldn't imagine an airship, let alone a firearm."
This gave Maia some pause. She gently puffed smoke while idly rubbing the underside of her beak. “The minos aren’t capable of such feats. They don’t understand industry or mechanization…”
Tor finished: “But they have us beat by their tenacity and strength. Which is why we need to act — we have the capacity to end our conflicts, once and for all!”
He approached Maia, his eyes bright. “Imagine, being the consul who steps into the capital of the ancient republic after seven hundred years.” Maia was starstruck from the idea. “Not only would the homeland be safe, but we can unite our lands, finally, under one banner!”
Maia’s fascination with the far eastern border of the Confederacy was well known. Its history was diverse as any other part of gryphon history, but this fascinated her in particular. The ancient texts that were recovered over the years described a beauty and splendor that begged to be recovered. She, much like Tor, had ancient holdings where the minotaur’s influence now reigned. Though Tor was more passive in his interest, Maia was driven to see her ancestral lands before she died. But with the stalemate on the frontier, there would never be a chance. However —
“With sparkpowder, we can drive back the cur and claim our birthright.” Tor narrowed his eyes and a savage grin grew. “Your birthright.” Without saying, he added: And become the next Great Power.
Maia hesitated. She looked to her tumbler with a girlish grin, struck by wonder. But, she shook her head, laughing with disbelief. “You had me, Tor!” She sighed. “Six bless, you had me. But we can’t do this — never!”
Can’t do this? Tor asked internally. Is this how we’ll be seen until the end of time? Adherent to a foreign hegemony? He wanted to snatch the tumbler from Maia’s grasp and smash it into the fireplace. For all the power we have, we are still subservient to Celestia!
“You're already in hot water with the forum,” Tor warned, changing tactics. “If you acquiesce to Celestia’s demand, that shows weakness. So, aside from incurring her anger, you would be seen as groveling to her. That’s not what I want from my consul.”
Maia scoffed. “Now you’re just being unreasonable.”
“Unreasonable?” Tor’s voice rose. Maia cocked her head, casting a weary gaze at Tor.
Tor continued: “Unreasonable would be bowing to Celestia. The forum, with all their griping, would sooner turn this around and make a wider wedge between us and the plebs. Answer me, Maia — Are we a free people, or pawns of a hegemon?”
“I won’t hear any of this!” Maia waved a talon. “Equestria is an ally of the Confederacy, and unlike what your little conspiracy likes to say, we are not her servant."
“Yet Celestia finds the want for cooperation as a mere fancy.” Tor began to gesture enthusiastically. “We tread in waters she dares not go — Let us be the first to chart them!”
Maia shook her head, dismissing Tor with another wave. “And if the world turns against us, Tor? Everyone on this planet looks to her for guidance on the order of things — And why should we not? She advocates peace, why should we go against the grain?”
“It's a noble goal,” Tor admitted. “But that nobility is squandered when her goals put her as the head of this movement. She keeps her people ignorant as a consequence, so why not censor us as well?” He pounded a talon in the other emphasize. “If we adopt this weapon, it shows strength and self-determination. We will have friends, and, perhaps, we’ll finally have respect from Equestria.”
“I won’t hear more of this, Tor!” Maia clenched her free talon into a fist. “How could you even suggest a fight with Equestria? Just so we can bolster your pride?" She pounded the tumbler onto her desk and approached Tor. “We won't dismantle years of stability, not while I'm consul!”
Tor scowled, gesturing with more fury. “If not against Celestia, then who? The forum? When they draw guns from their holsters, you’re going to remember the moment you could’ve stopped them.” A growl began to rumble from his throat. “What happens during the next mino invasion? What if a slug could’ve saved a poor gryph’s life? Would you allow the bloodspill of a kinsman as an acceptable loss for a little wink from Celestia?”
Smack! Maia’s talonstrike knocked Tor off balance. A silence followed, only the snapping of firewood and the ticking clock echoed off the walls. As Tor recovered, a standoff began, its tension liable to break, and alongside it, the room. Their chests bellowed, their stances became aggressive crouches, and they looked at each other from behind heavy, scowled brows.
Tor’s talon itched for his sword. Maia’s silhouette in front of the fire reminded him of an advancing minotaur brandishing a terrible hammer. But as harrowing as her figure looked, he forced his body to slow down and ease. He mentally counted, pacing his breathing.
Maia straightened herself and crossed her arms. A menacing tone accompanied her disappointment. “Are you done, senator?”
Another long pause. “Yes, My Consul.”
She turned her back on him. “Then, you are dismissed.”
I could get drunk. Tor thought to himself, sifting through his bar. He shut it defeated — As if the drink would ease your tension, fool!
He paced behind his desk, his mind busied. I may have been out of line, but I feel it in my bones. Rub shoulders with Celestia she'll do, but Six forbid she takes some initiative. He scowled, leering at nothing on the carpet. We have our problems, and we're not perfect — goodness knows the Veronian Code is the least of my worries — but at least we could try and work past them! It's almost as if Maia likes the status quo, playing Consul like another fledglinghood game. Doing things to benefit our class, nothing else.
He then gazed at his desk, piled on with parcels of the day. I'm growing weary of playing, too. What help am I here? The plebs are my pawns, and only I reap the rewards of victory. He briefly stared at the stenciled ceiling. Were this another life...
He mulled over to his desk and slumped into his chair with a sigh, reminding himself to work. There was little he wanted to do but to keep himself planted in his seat. With some effort, he managed to straighten himself out to snatch up the correspondence on his desk. In fashion, he laid them out before him, counting out the five letters addressed to him — And a newspaper? I don’t remember asking the post to be sent directly…
Tor hefted the newspaper, thick like the Sunday editions always were. He wasn’t unfamiliar with reading a newspaper in his office, quite the contrary; It was imperative that he was caught up on the latest within the Confederacy and beyond — But he picked up a copy of the Post an hour before joining session, every day. But being sent to his office? Surely a mistake!
Before he unfolded the paper, Tor spied a handwritten note on it:
You won’t believe who I found! Turn to page A3. You’ll be in for a surprise.
-Gaius
Tor humored Gaius with a grunt and unrolled the paper. He glanced past many of the current events: a surge in strikes across the country, concerns over the proposed iron trade agreement, and of course Celestia's botched visit. He passed the article about the strikes with some interest — There had been a long string of them, including in his hometown Rasorgi, which headquartered the Metal Shapers Union.
He grimaced. The third strike this year! What in Tartarus are we even doing about it? I've told Gareth to bring up some sort of measure to address worker's rights, and yet nothing! A pang shot through his gut, only to be reminded again of Gareth's desertion. Damn it, lad...
Their demands were always the same — improved working conditions, a shorter workweek, better benefits, the list goes on — but local militias were being called more and more to guard factories and mines from their workers. Just a month ago, the United Mine Workers of the Confederacy came to blows with the mining companies in the Hyperborean Mountains. It may have been a simple skirmish, but... It could get a lot worse.
Tor was sympathetic to the unions — a sympathy rooted from debating his subordinates while enlisted. Many lads who served with him came from salt-of-the-earth type families, who all worked in the unions. Tor had a stand off-ish relationship with the concept, what with the idea that they should be happy to even be employed at all — But with enough time at the pub, and many drinks, he was convinced of their necessity.
If I can live an easy life, then surely my comrades should be as close to that life as possible! He looked off to the side briefly. Though collective ownership, I still have a hard time wrapping my head around it.
He shook his head and sighed. The fight had been years long, and it seemed that their voices were eventually to be choked silent. He had no power over the economic side of the Confederacy, only a hope.
There we go again with hope, he mused. Maybe Hollyhock had something there.
He turned to page A3, and his eyes widened at the headline: The Lion Roars! An image of a stern zebra stood at the head of a giant crowd, his features coarse and rough like the mountain that peered above him. He was scarred and gruff, with a gold hoop hanging from his left ear, and his right ear was barely a nub. His photo was captured in mid-sentence, and it was like he was yelling a deafening war cry.
Tor couldn’t mistake him: It was Colonel Ibhubesi, or as how Tor remembered by his title, the Lion of the Athenian Valley. His image evoked the terrible roar Ibhubesi’s Battalion: “Ukafa!” Death!
He had gained acclaim after they last met, coming from his officer's post to eventually rising to the rank of chapter president of the UMWC — Only to be stripped of that title after leading the wildcat strike the article had mentioned.
Tor chuckled. He was always known for taking his foes by surprise.
As Tor read the article, his vision grew hazy and unfocused. The print shifted in his vision. It fell like mino arrows, devil hail forged with the hate of Toke Gün and the ferocity of Tartarus. He could smell the sweat that stuck to his gambeson, how it glinted from his face and onto his breastplate. His jinbaori surcoat was in tatters, barely hanging from his shoulders. His jingasa’s cheek plates were pulled tight, secured on his head. The world's noise echoed dull metallic from under it, muffling voices and the clank of steel. Blood smeared on his face from Tuulikki's terrible, hemorrhaging gut wound. He tried to stem the flow, but it wasn't going to help. Not with a hole that big.
She reached up to him, her beak dropping soundless words into the earth. She reached up to Tor — But, Six bless, we have to form up for the defense!
He looked up to Gaius, pointing his crossbow at a stretch of wood on the other side of the road. It, and the rest of the world around them, was bathed in harsh reds of hellfire from the burning settlement to the east of them. The blaze was contained behind its stucco walls, but those walls were bound to fall.
Tor shouted to Gaius, which was nearly drowned from the other voices yelling around them. Gaius looked to Tor with a nod, but not before he loosened a bolt. As it whistled past, Tor directed Gaius to aid the dying Tuulikki while he rose to his company. She would not see Tor again.
Just beyond the road, the faint, hulking silhouettes of muscle and horn began to show. Passing through pillars of daylight, the minotaur were like wisps floating through the wood, only their angry eyes and warpaints a sign of their approach.
The group of civilians behind the company yelled in fear, nearly deafening Tor. His body was hypersensitive to the world as he focused himself: The warm wind blew the sickly-sweet scent of singed flesh. The grass crunched below him as he stepped forward towards the road with his troops. His backsword glistened in crimson and silver, and was his terrible instrument of command.
He turned to his trumpeter, Stajno, for the command Form rank. His skirmishers drew up in line, stepping through the blood, moving around the bodies. They were careful to keep their grim expressions subdued, to not give much hope to the mino ahead — Much good that would do.
The mino kept their distance for the meanwhile, beating their shields and shaking their weapons. They chanted a guttural song in unison, causing Tor's skin to crawl. It felt like a funeral dirge.
Tor’s gryphs came together like a living bulwark. They had just their bucklers, backswords and crossbows, of which they were maybe sharing a handful of bolts. Their pikes all snapped hours ago, unable to hold back the terrible tide.
There were so many of them, Tor thought. Six hundred at the least, maybe eight hundred at the most. My two hundred struck hard, but we were wheat to the scythe. Damn the mino — every last one of them! Tor looked behind him, the civilians shaking and praying. Last count was seventy five, maybe eighty, from a town of a thousand.
Tor stood next to Kama, his standard bearer, and looked down the ragged line of Echo Company. They weren’t line infantry, but they were all that was left.
He let out a defiant yell to counter the mino war chant. He was echoed by sixty other voices, the chorus of the damned.
Are you ready to die? Because we are!
From the shadows the hulking form of the mino war party emerged. Thick, bronzed bodies shielded their flesh, and blood dribbled from their weapons. Their horns were adorned with ribbons of every color, and flitted in the breeze. Were this another world, beauty could be seen in their advance as the sun’s warm rays glowed around them in sick, heavenly juxtaposition.
Behind him, Gaius pulled Tor’s attention. He stuck his hand out onto a tree wordlessly, and Tor did the same. A different vibration shuddered through the trunk. Its cadence was fast, steady, and fluctuated like his heartbeat. His ears perked. Who else approached?
The mino roared again. Tor didn’t bother to look for the rumble's source, instead to counter-roar with his comrades.
It’s time. Time to fight. Time to find his home in the cliffs of Sarmma.
Tor stood in Zornhut stance, buckler up and sword raised just above the shoulder. The line joined him and took a step forward. Behind him, the remaining townsfolk began to retreat. Fledglings cried as their mothers tried to hush them. Their fathers rushed beside, their weapons rugged as the clothes left on their backs. Whoever could fly could. The few zebra here were escorted by willing volunteers.
They would be lucky to escape alive.
A step forward, ready. Then, the mino began to move. Their cry was bloodcurdling. The closer they moved, the snarl on their snouts curled into arrogant smiles. To compound it, their shields were left down just to reinforce their dominance. What fear is there to have when the game has been won? It was checkmate —
A tap at Tor’s left. He looked over to tell Adrasteia to shut up, but there was more to be seen. The terrible rumble became clearer, and a cloud of dust bellowed toward them, accompanied with a shining of polished, blue steel. Banners and flags whipped violently, obscuring any insignia. They were maybe a kilometer off, maybe a little closer.
How did I not see them? If I couldn’t notice...
Then he wouldn't give the minotaur a chance. They’d keep their attention until the last moment. He shouted the order to charge. Then the trumpet blared.
Tor could smell the scent of fear in the air as the unit advanced, mixed with the acrid taste of sweat and oil. Another step forward, and his whole body began to stand on end, every hair and feather pressing against every fiber of his thick gambeson.
The line moved as one unit, a continuous line of cobalt and flashing metal. At first, their advance was a coordinated march, but quickly devolved into a wave of steel, crashing headfirst into the uncountable mino war party. Their yells echoed thunder, drowning out the fear that boiled in Tor's gut. Like clockwork, his drilled training moved his body like a gruesome machine of war.
Cut — a miss. Thrust — a quick nick on the horn. Block — twenty pounds of steel stopped by Tor's quick movement. Riposte — A howl of pain! Anything to keep their attention until the last possible minute! Tor moved as fast as he could, his numbed mind only focused on his drilled movements.
He deflected a sword stroke with his buckler, and within that movement cut through the tendons of his opponent’s arm. A tide of blood rushed from the wound, coating Tor's blue, enameled armor. The minotaur’s warcry turned to a roar of pain, swiftly cut silent with a return of polished steel through the neck. A terrible torrent flowed down the side of his backsword and over its basket hilt, washing his talon with a terrible stink of copper.
Just a minute more, Tor yelled in his head. Soon, soon! A beleaguered cry rang next to Tor, Adrasteia at the mercy of a mino spatha speared through her gambeson. The spray of blood from Tor’s minotaur caused the stabbing minotaur to flinch, which gave Tor enough time to reach over and jab his sword through a thick, coiled thigh. Even with a sword through her, Adrasteia punched her shield’s edge straight up the minotaur’s jaw, blasting teeth from his mouth.
“Ukafa!” A terrible cry rang. The clanging of steel stopped for a crucial moment. The combatants looked down the road. A steel bulwark charged, quaking the earth. Steel-tipped lances gleamed like a thousand stars, and pointed straight for them. Tor could finally see it: Confederate Chargers — Zebra heavy cavalry.
“Ukafa!” Cried out again, shouted by what sounded like a hundred thousand voices. Their collective being tore through Tor's body like a hammer to the gut, shaking him to his core. The minotaur all tried to adjust, but were too busied with Echo Company when Tor pressed the attack. They bounced off each other to gain better footing, or were beginning to break.
Tor, in a moment of respite, saw a striking white plume whipping from the top of the leading helmet, standing out among the sea of blue steel. Under its helmet drew the beginnings of the battle cry once more.
“Ukafaaaaaaa!” The zebra shouted. Their gallop thundered across the valley, the chant echoed with the strength of millions, the cloud of dust obscuring what could be the only instance of living sea come to devour its prey. Just as the world was about to fall apart, the first lance struck with a power of a thousand terrible thunder—
Clap, clap clap!
Tor shook himself. He looked to his talons, no longer encased in steel gauntlets. His shoulders were light without the clasp of steel. The newspaper he held was scattered, blanketed on his lap. He tried to steady his breathing while cleaning up, but his calm betrayed his shaking talons. He rubbed his wrists, the subtle roughness of his callouses gone, like the time long past.
One. Two. He told himself. He felt his pulse slowly beginning to subside. One. Two. One. Two. Tor placed a talon on his desk to steady himself. He shook his head, shaking off the haze. He wiped his other talon over his face, but surprised himself when he felt dampness. He was crying.
I visit the frontier and back in under — He looked up to his clock — It was only five minutes? It took almost an hour to the fighting to start —
Stop. Tor placed his talon over his heart to steady himself.
Clap, clap, clap! Came the noise again. Tor perked his ears and realized his door was being knocked on. He wiped his eyes and finished getting his mess in order.
“Come in,” Tor said, making his way to the bar. The door slid open as he poured blue liquor into a shaking tumbler he tried to steady. Just a haunting — You can get through it again!
He looked away from the door, trying to choke his sobs. His tumbler shook harder in his talon, and could only suppress it with a quick gulp of his liquor — He squeezed his eyes tight as the liquid fire soared through his body.
That’ll straight you, he reprimanded himself. With a quick deep breath, he placed the glass down and turned about to see Golden Sunshine walk in.
“Miss Sunshine,” he greeted with a smile. He hoped she didn’t read tails very well, because his was fidgeting, trying to wrestle with the swirl of feelings. “Please make yourself comfortable.” He gestured to a chair before his desk. “It’s a wonderful surprise to see you.”
“Thank you, Lord Razorwing.” She unbuckled the saddlebags on her and placed them near the door. She approached the chair, and scooted herself up, taking time to adjust to its height. “I hope I’m not bothering you, sir?”
“You’re only keeping me from looking at a few documents,” Tor said, approaching his desk. Before he took a seat, he stared at the space in front of Sunshine. “Can I offer you a drink, miss?”
“Well…” Sunshine hesitated. “You wouldn’t happen to have any sirrahlah?”
Tor cocked his head, surprised. “You must be the first equine I’ve ever met who’s even heard of sirrahlah!” He smiled at her, and she replied with her own. He strode to the bar, his mind growing distant from his haunting.
“Well, when Ren realized he wasn’t going to get any closer to the Princess after the demo, he decided to treat me to a few drops of the stuff,” Sunshine chuckled. “Didn’t do him any favors, but I think I found a new favorite import.”
“I have a few friends from thereabouts the Pleagian Trail.” Tor pulled on the bar’s pearl handles to reveal the plethora of colored bottles within. With a fair amount of digging, he pulled out a rectangular bottle, flawlessly transparent, and a bit dusty. He popped its cork after dusting it off, pouring a pink, cloudy liquid into a free tumbler. The scents of cherry flowed freely with the wine.
“Damn good stuff, I must say, Miss Sunshine,” he continued. “This particular batch is from a winery north of Talon’s Reach. Look up the Brasti Winery once you have a chance.” He brought the tumbler to eye level, inspecting the wine. The swirling clouds coursed like fog rolling across a river. He began to breathe faster as his mind started to race.
C'mon, lad, steady yourself. He paced his breathing.
“I will,” Sunshine replied, helping pull Tor back to reality. “As unsuccessful as Ren was, I guess I can only thank him for the drink.” Tor walked back to the desk and placed her drink down. With a nod of thanks, the unicorn pulled the glass to her lips effortlessly with her telekinesis. Always enamored with the art, Tor took time to see her perform it.
“I suppose that’s the only thing you’ll thank him for, considering.” Tor took his seat, leaning back in the chair.
“I’m sorry, My Lord. Regardless of my opinions, I can only ask the princess to respect whatever decisions the Confederacy makes in the future.” Sunshine also looked at the glass, amused at the fogginess. “But, I’m not here to talk politics today, sir. I just wanted to say my goodbyes.”
Tor nodded. “It’s a shame that we have to part due to such unfortunate circumstances, miss Sunshine.”
Sunshine took another sip and sighed. “Incredibly unfortunate. I was hoping to stay a little longer, even after Celestia had left, but she’s forbidden my stay — especially since I've poked my nose into the Purge. Leaving will be a little tough for me.” She stared to the side, her brow furrowed. “Stoneanchor is lovely, My Lord, but I had wished to see the Black Beaches, or maybe even Castle Gryphonstone; It had been a fillyhood dream to finally visit, but…”
She sighed again. “I’m not blaming you, sir. It’s just the circumstances have —”
“It’s politics, miss Sunshine,” Tor interrupted. “It is tiresome and does not always smooth the feathers.” His features softened and he leaned back in his chair with a grin. “But you honor me with your love of our history and culture — even if we may not always agree with one another, I am happy I can speak to you as a friend.”
Sunshine’s ears perked up, and a small smile grew on her muzzle. “I didn’t think I’d cultivate a friendship with a gryphon senator! Filly Sunshine would probably lose her mind.”
“Being the student of Celestia wouldn’t have done that alone?” Tor asked.
“Well… yeah, probably,” Sunshine shrugged. “But my dad used to be a bit of an adventurer, you see. He was a merchant marine long before I was born. He would love to tell me about the Black Beaches and the port city of Losagi, and oh! So much more.” Tor rested his head on a talon, smiling at her story.
Sunshine continued: “He always said there was a kind of ancient weight to gryphon society. It felt older than Equestria, much more nuanced and elegant, like an old marble pillar. Echoes through the steepest valleys, secrets stashed in the deepest caves.”
Her ears flopped back and grinned bashfully. “I was a very excitable young filly.”
Tor chuckled. “Your enthusiasm is infectious, miss Sunshine.”
Sunshine smiled, swirling the wine around in the glass. “I’d joke saying that I worked my way to being her student just for the chance to join her on her diplomatic trips, but there is some truth in it. I always tell myself that once I leave her stead, I’ll ask to join the diplomatic corps — But I really don’t know what students do after they’ve left her.” She paused, tapping a hoof to her chin. “The Princess doesn’t really speak about it much…”
“Well, whatever your choice, miss Sunshine, you will be welcome here in the Confederacy. If you ever need a place, my door will be open.”
“Thank you, Tor — oop!” Sunshine shot a hoof to her mouth.
“It’s alright,” he assured, patting the air with a talon. “I think we can forego the formality. ‘Tor’ is just fine.”
Sunshine giggled. “Well, when in Canterlot, and all that.”
Though the afternoon was shadowed by the overhanging cloud that was the Equestrian departure, it did not deter Tor and Sunshine’s time together. More glasses of wine were poured, and tales of the world were told. Tor’s spirits were lifted with her presence, happy to sit down with someone who wasn’t so intertwined with politics and statecraft.
Sunshine proved to be a delightful conversationalist, counter to stories Tor heard about Celestia's previous students. It was wonderful to share wine with Sunshine — perhaps a little too much — but it made the words flow even better. Tor wished he could have more afternoons without politics.
But, he lamented. Such is the way of the senator.
“—And so,” Sunshine finished some time later. “I told her, ‘No, mademoiselle Sweetwater, this barn door doesn’t swing both ways!’” The two shared a boisterous laughter.
Tor took a final sip from his glass, painstakingly nursed to sustain a light, gentle buzz. “Aye, the Prench — They look at the world in a far more unique way, do they not?”
“They do! With some of the ways they look at relationships, I think my mother would go four shades of red by some of the things I’d tell her!” They laughed again.
Sunshine finished off her glass with a satisfying ahh! “Tor, I must take a bottle of this with me. It might be the last bottle I have for a long time.”
“For a long time?” Tor mused. "You sound so sure."
“If this stupid embargo starts, then it will be.”
Tor reached into his purse, fumbling with a few coins. “Color me skeptical, but I think she's bluffing — and we're going to call her out on it.” He pulled out handful of pieces and placed them on Sunshine’s side of the desk. “Here, Sunshine — This’ll pay for a bottle. Hold on, let me write down Dureessa’s city address.”
He opened a drawer for his blank parchment, only for him to see Rovena’s letter. He felt warmth fill his cheeks, smiling. Aye, she'd make a good secretary, I think... not to mention good company. He made a mental note to bring it home with him, as her mailing address was attached.
Sunshine nodded in thanks, and magically placed the coins into her saddlebags. “Please, Tor. Don’t underestimate the princess. She was… well, I’d say rather alarmed after the demo. She’s begun to reassess the capability of the Confederacy.”
Tor was hoping it was because of their friendship that she was dropping such information, instead of the drink.
Hiding his surprised reaction, he kept his head down as he wrote his supplier’s address. “Reassess,” he said plainly.
“She described the Confederacy as a sleeping dragon: It would take one development to push it into having an advantage that could change the balance of power, and how it's distributed. She thinks this is it.” Sunshine gestured with a hoof. “She's okay with you keeping your mechanized military, your industrial capacity — but it can’t really affect power, just deployment. But with something as explosive as this, and using sparkpowder as its building blocks, it could lead to a lot.”
We can keep our — Celestia, that bitch! Tor smouldered. He pressed down on his pen, causing ink to splatter on the page. He swore under his breath.
“I thought she’d be willing to share in its use,” he said, reeling in his anger. “An offering of our friendship.”
“As impressed as I was,” Sunshine admitted. “She sees more power in economic and diplomatic means. Soft power, you’re familiar.”
Tor grunted in response while dabbing the page with a small handkerchief.
Sunshine continued with channeled hesitation: “She’s also afraid.”
Tor looked up from the page, genuinely surprised from the admittance. He suppressed his smile, cocking his head. “Afraid?”
“Perhaps some context is necessary: A few decades after the establishment of the Third Era — after the defeat of Discord — the old republic had begun to expand in earnest.” Tor was familiar. It was almost a thousand years ago, where the republic decided that it wanted to incorporate the other disparate gryphon tribes under one banner. Though it led to a period of frequent warfare, it did its job, and unfortunately led to a wider set of campaigns.
But it seems to Celestia that old habits die hard.
“She doesn’t want that to happen again,” Sunshine said. “She’s afraid that if you expanded rapidly like that, it would involve the whole eastern hemisphere, and quite possibly, the rest of the world.”
Tor was taken aback. “A global war?” He asked. A war of that magnitude was hypothesized to occur, but, it was only just a hypothesis — Why would we even want to fight anyone else but the mino?
“That’s a bold claim, Sunshine,” Tor asserted. “I can assure her that our wars are defensive, or on legitimate justification — not to mention primarily against the minotaur.”
Sunshine challenged: “Yet you still war?”
Tor nodded sagely. “That is the nature of things, Sunshine. Most beings do not enjoy war, but like the setting of the sun, it is a mechanism of the world we live in.” He sighed and shook his head. “But we are not the warlike republic of old — Even if we use this weapon, it is just to recover that which was lost.”
Sunshine opened her mouth to respond, but Tor silenced her with an erect digit. “The minotaur swept in from the far eastern seas and decimated the republic. They drove us from our homes, our lives, and broke the republic’s back. It caused the shattering of the republic and the warring states period. After four hundred years of that, we recovered. We have old families, old holds, old histories, lost in minotaur paws. They refuse to talk, and only care about fighting us. That is our enemy — and we have a right to our home.”
“You may have casus belli, Tor, but that doesn’t keep you from wanting to go elsewhere. If you don’t mind me playing Discord’s Advocate — What’s stopping you from moving to other parts of the continent?
“Quite simply, our record.” Tor laid out his argument with sincerity: “Aside from our frequent diplomatic envoys to our neighbors, we have done what we can to foster dignity and respect — especially to Equestria. Notice our first intention with the gun was to share it with Equestria. Not to mention the fact that we've never engaged in any international war. All of our wars have been domestic, from the Great Resurgence and our wars with the mino."
Tor shrugged. “With the mino, Sunshine, bad blood is just bad blood.”
Sunshine nodded, processing the information. “Perhaps her fear is a little unfounded. Maybe her thoughts have been clouded because of the past.”
“My thoughts precisely.”
“But you can’t ignore her — nor should you disregard continuing diplomatic relations with the minotaur.” Tor grumbled at that.
Sunshine continued: “Living over a millennium is no small feat, and that includes a wealth of wisdom. She has seen the world in ways you and I can't comprehend. She has seen nations rise and fall, including yours, to a multitude of factors.” Sunshine rose from the chair, securing the saddlebag to her flanks. “I may be frequently skeptical of my teacher, but I'm always going to consider her words first.”
“That's an understandable point of view,” Tor agreed, rising as well. “But this is not that greedy republic. We are different.”
They made their way to the door, and Tor slid it open for Sunshine.
“Just whatever your people do, Tor," Sunshine warned. "I hope that it leads something good. I want you to prove Celestia wrong.”
“We will,” Tor assured. “I have faith that we will use our own hope in the future. We are a resilient people." Tor then bowed. "Merry meet and merry part, Sunshine.”
“And merry meet again, Tor,” Sunshine replied, with a soft smile. Tor's tail wagged, happy with her familiarity with the old farewell.
Tor laughed. "Best of luck on your way home.” She left with a bow, and trotted out the door. Tor shut it with an approving nod.
It was silent in the bedroom, the crackling fire fading as the night continued. The clock over the mirror ticked on, alongside the cadence of Tor’s snoring. But it broke abruptly as his ears began to flick. He groaned groggily as he rose in the bed. His sheets spread neatly around him, opposed to his disheveled composition. His skin crawled like an old gryph, shivering at a rolling breeze through an open window. He could hear the pattering of rain lightly slapping the cobblestone path that rounded the estate. A gentle rumble of thunder echoed through the room.
It’s growing colder these days, he admitted. He considered, briefly, to surrender to the night and cover up with his bedspread — but he knew himself, and he knew the weather. Though autumn was around the corner, now was not the time to invite it inside! With a grumble, he threw off the covers and scooted himself onto the floor.
It was hardly a strenuous journey, but his venture to the window was slowed by his insistence on avoiding the tile and stepping on the rugs that dotted the room.
Who was the idiot who insisted tile was in vogue last century? All he knew was that tile made a cold floor, and his rugs were perfect insulation.
He reached the window in due time. However, pulling it back, he realized he didn’t open it before he went to sleep. He was still a little groggy, trying to ascertain why in the world he would do it in the first place. The reflection of the dying fireplace glowed on the window, only to be subtly obscured by —
A talon wrapped itself around his throat. As swiftly as it came, Tor wrapped his left talon around the arm, and with instinct, threw up his right, stopping the talon wielding glistening dagger aimed to his chest. Before there was another reaction, he quickly bent his knees and pulled his opponent down with him, delivering an elbow to the gut as he reached the floor.
A guttural grunt choked out, causing his opponent to recoil and bounce off of Tor’s bed. Before she could recover, Tor cried out for his guards. It was enough time for the assassin to retaliate, swiping the dagger across the barrel of his chest.
He caught the shimmering of his blood in the moonlight as she crossed the weapon across her chest. With a painful roar, Tor pushed himself into the attacker, trapping his body against hers. He pinned her arm against her chest with his talon, digging into it with his nails. The assassin shouted in response, and dug her left talon into Tor’s back.
Before he would allow her any more damage, he threw the assassin across the room. She was able to administer one last wound as her talon dragged itself across his back, trying to dig into him before being tossed into the mirror. With a frightful smash, a thousand shards spread along the floor.
Powering through the excruciating pain, Tor quickly rushed to his wall of weapons and pulled down his old backsword. He unsheathed it and chucked the scabbard at the assassin. It struck her head with a solid thock, eliciting from her a line of blasphemies. It was a brief enough of a distraction for Tor to squeeze open the gas pipes next to his bed, allowing a golden glow to illuminate the bedroom.
His enemy was dressed in tight-fitting clothing, deep black to hide her in shadow, hiding her all her features except sapphire eyes peeking from behind a hood. Her body was adorned in trinkets of thievery: gas bombs, lockpicks and the like, alongside a now empty scabbard, and — with surprise from Tor — the unmistakable handle of a pistol.
She’s a formidable fighter, Tor thought, evaluating her abilities. She isn’t formally trained, not with the moves she’s pulling. It makes her even more dangerous.
Her dagger was cast away across the room. The assassin’s right talon was instead armed with a sizable shard of the mirror, gleaming terror from the gaslight. She rushed to Tor with a savage yell and swiped. Tor pulled back just in time, not before the shard clipped a few of his headfeathers.
The assassin’s stance demonstrated poor defense, overextending herself. Tor swiped down between her arms, intercepting the talon holding the shard. It seized while she cried in agony. The backsword slid through her bone, half severing the talon. As soon as he struck, the mirror clattered to the floor and broke with a solid snap. She shrieked briefly, and Tor socked the assassin square in the jaw with his free fist. She stumbled, trying to steady herself by grabbing at Tor’s nightgown, tearing through and getting tangled in the cotton.
With no way to counter, they both slammed onto the tile. On impact, Tor lost grip of his sword, and it skipped across the mirror pieces. Before Tor could even physically respond, the assassin plowed her left fist into his face, stunning him. The assassin rolled Tor onto his back and straddled his midsection. Without hesitation, she began to land more blows, the wetness of each strike growing more noticeable as his face began to swell. On every hit, the assassin’s face contorted in pain. Blood flowed steadily from her right arm, its bone and muscle exposed.
Tor tried to push her off but his efforts were in vain as he was thwarted by each punch. He brandished the nails on his talons and thrust into her gut, clenching on a rock-hard piece of muscle. With another cry of combined pain and anger, the assassin scrambled over him for the backsword. Her movements caused Tor to tear her garments, and blood flowed through the fabric and onto his talon.
She swung up to deal the final blow on Tor, but it was a move that opened her up for Tor’s own: Tor pulled the gun from her holster and with one move, he pulled the trigger.
It was if nitroglycerin unleashed its roar inside his brain, and echoed through his ears. Within that split-second flash, a terrible spray of gore erupted from her back, onto the ceiling and the rug around them. The scent of gore danced with the grimly pleasurable smell of sparkpowder, forcing Tor to suppress a gag.
The assassin dropped the backsword and slumped over him, her face in shock as she stared into Tor’s eyes. She looked deep into his, as if trying to ask for pity on a poor, young eagless. Blood poured onto Tor, drenching him in the stench of death. He was paralyzed, trying to move, but the shock of the detonation seized the whole world for what felt like ages.
Tor’s brow curled together as he pulled his talon from her gut, squelching from its disgusting suction. The sanguine covered his talon in thick globules, and ran from his digits steadily. His breathing accelerated as he slid her onto the closest rug, placing her down with a unceremonial squish.
The assassin sharply gasped and fought for air. Her eyes darted to and fro, looking for something unseen. She turned her head to Tor, who stared at her with bewilderment. Without a second thought, he placed a bloody talon on her neck while she began to whimper. He pressed the middle digits against her brain stem. By the old rites, it was said to be a place to help ease the pain.
She was cold and clammy. Tor remembered holding an old warrior in his arms in his youth. The bloodshed was not so violent, nor was it so quiet after. But it was lonely here. There were no friends to sing a dirge or to bring a towel to wash the wound. The most he could do was be here for her.
A warrior stays for a warrior.
The assassin cried out while he adjusted himself to cradle her. Her eyes glossed over as fear overcame her. Tears rolled down her bloodstained face, washing it ever so slightly.
“By the eyes of Anadolu, blessed be her gaze, I bear witness to your first steps unladen,” Tor gently chanted. He then made his voice stern, but barely above a whisper: "Who sent you?"
The assassin coughed blood, oozing from her mouth and her nostrils. Tor squinted as it splattered on his face.
“Some hoity-toity sorts,” she strenuously replied. “They told me ye broke the Veronian Code — Gave a good price, too. They promised me a Grover’s ransom. I could eat for a year!” Her gasps became more frequent, and she gripped hard onto a loose bit of Tor’s gown. Tor sighed, remorseful.
“Shite,” she cursed. “So, this is what it’s like t’ be hit by a locomotive.” Her breathing started to go erratic, and tears flowed stronger. Her whimpering deteriorated into a quiet, childish weeping.
He shushed her, reassuring her with a calm stroking of her head. “I am here for you.”
Tor, unable to do anything, could only hold her as she began to pass. Her swearing phased into incomprehensive muttering and whimpering. Tor began to hear a cadence after a short time — She was praying.
He was familiar with it, a dirge that the dying recite as request into Sarmma. The tune rose and fell, like the great cliffs that rose high into the Eternal Sky, beckoning its wayward souls back to bond with the Six. He closed his eyes and sang with her softly, giving her companionship as she left.
She grew colder. The room was occupied by nothing but her prayers and the fading crackling of his fireplace. She couldn’t finish her final lines. But as warriors do, they help one another — Tor took on the mantle of the request into Sarmma.
They exchanged one last glance at each other as he finished his tune. Tor’s golden eyes reflecting the dying hue of her blue. She gasped a final breath, and her grip around his shirt loosened, growing limp. Her eyes rolled away, and grew still.
Gone.
Tor took the sheets from his bed to wrap the corpse in a makeshift veil. The silence of his room consumed him as he prepared her like any other honorable warrior. His thoughts swirled with each fold and revolution of the cloth. His eyes wandered about to the remnants of the fight — The blood scattered across the furniture and the floor, the pools that lay static between the tile. This carnage, perhaps, could only be incurred by the explosive nature of Corus Ren’s firearm.
He sighed, and placed a somber talon on the wrapped figure. He had killed before — he can recall every life he had extinguished, which was luckily in the single digits.
But those deaths felt… different.Tor’s stomach tightened briefly as he mulled the idea over. There was something to it — It shouldn’t have been so quick. He caught himself and smirked. I can’t believe I’m complaining about surviving an assassination attempt.
Tor reached over the body, took the pistol and grasped it gingerly. It was sticky with blood, coating from the muzzle down to the receiver, shining in a miserable sheen, which he quickly cleaned with a free bedsheet. It was bottom heavy, unlike a sword. It felt easy to control but easy to make a mistake if it happened. The smell of sparkpowder still lingered on it like a cursed miasma. It was sleek and well fitting in his talon, glossy and barely used. Sliding a digit over the barrel, he could identify the mon of Ren’s manufactury.
This is so efficient, Tor realized. A pull of the trigger and the body crumples. It’s so simple, too — No finesse or long years of training. It was the first time he had really held one, refraining from trying it at Ren’s demonstration. He raised the weapon and brought its sights to eye level, aiming at the wall. His pointer finger laid on the the trigger, and he hesitated. He slowly pulled back on it, half expecting it to unleash fury again. His body relaxed after it didn't.
I destroyed a life so easily just with this motion — A line of gryphs could do more in a minute that a battalion of spears could do in an hour. The feathers on his neck rose erect as a shiver drifted down his spine. Six above! I see why Celestia’s fears were there… But this will change everything.
The jinn had escaped the lamp, he realized. A sharpened spear was nothing compared to the blunt barrel of a gun. He may have already seen it when it destroyed a minotaur’s cuirass, but to see it kill… Tor shook his head. Maia was right — The sword was about to be decommissioned.
Tor carefully put the gun down and moved on to clear his thoughts. He retrieved a large piece of the mirror to look over himself. The wound on his chest was significant but not deep. He felt a bruise on his neck where he was grabbed, and one sweltering on his right arm, where he stopped the blade. His face was worse for wear, and he was afraid his cheekbone was cracked.
The scratch on his back was just below his right wing, but from what he could tell, was deeper than the cut. He would have to wash up later. For now, he concluded, he would have to dress them. He had no medical application in the home, so he used what was best for now — linens. He took one of his bedsheets and wrapped his barrel, wincing and whining all the way.
After dressing himself proper, he discarded his sullied nightgown and opted for something more utilitary: A plain shirt and accompanying auburn waistcoat and breeches. His cravat was simple. He slipped on the holster after figuring how it hung from his body. He also recovered the wrapped paper cartridges and percussion caps from the assassin’s corpse. Nine loads. He then prepared a baldric to hold a sword, but which one? He’d decide soon.
With a heavy heart, he walked out into the foyer, pushing his thick door into its pocket. He was guilt-ridden to see the guards’ corpses. Shallow pools of crimson cradled their heads, the result of a slit neck on both of them. One was already primed for combat, his sword still in talon. It seems that his assailant was too quick on the draw for him.
The other guard didn’t stand a chance, taken by surprise. Her dying gesture was a futile attempt to contain the spillage, shown by the grip around her throat.
He gave a prayer of thanks to the Six for his fortunes, and safe passage of his entourage to the cliffs of Sarmma. He would do the same pleasantries as he did to his assassin’s body, but a sense of urgency struck him.
Tor knew someone was awaiting an answer on his death. The assassin’s lack of return would already be a cause for concern. But his life to continue? He was bound to have continued accostment from these “hoity-toity sorts,” of whom he assumed was the forum.
But with both parties lost, it might mean a success — and not having to pay the reward, naturally. Tor moved with haste back to his bedroom.
He took the assassin’s body and laid it on his bed, and pulled the blankets back over her. He then began to pack. Clothes, some pleasantries and toiletries, cold weather clothes. He fished around for the money he kept about to keep him financed for the next few weeks and returned to his sword situation.
He slid the backsword to the scabbard and slung it on his baldric. He reached for his gold saber out of habit —and hesitated. This would be the moment for him to abandon his station. But this could help me if I needed something big. If I do this, it risks exposing me back into the fold, and this whole thing could start all over again.
He stood for a short while as his talon hovered over it. His arm began to ache. Yes, he finally said to himself, stuffing it into his bag. We’ll take it.
He sighed as he put it in. From all the plain clothes that sat within the bag, the hilt shone with a grand glittering. The azure scabbard had an ethereal glow about it, a testament to the craftsgryphs who made it over five centuries prior.
Like all weapons slung from the baldrics of the senate, it was a weapon also held by one of the original founders of the Confederacy. Ancient, but still wondrously beautiful. He wanted to cradle the precious thing and shelter it, but — It’s only a ceremonial weapon. Granted, he defied that reverence a little while ago.
“Okay,” Tor mumbled to himself. “Let’s keep moving.” He lit a candle and placed it on the mantle. It was normal for a candle to burn while observing the dead’s passing, but it also served another purpose. He then turned about to the switch of the gaslight and turned it off.
Like many gaslight systems, it held a pilot light burning at all times, not only for ease of ignition, but to keep the gases from seeping into the room, which is what he wanted. He climbed onto his bed to blow out the pilot. It took him a good while to even move up as his wounds began to ache with the strain of climbing.
He hesitated. If his plan were to happen, there’d be no going back. Risk my life, or work outside the bounds of my station? If I stay, I’ll be under attack again and again. Not to mention, my resistance could cost the life of another who has done the same crime I have! If I leave, my departure might satiate the bloody appetite of the forum, and we can come back to some stability.
Tor smirked. I suppose I could live away from the hustle and bustle. Life off my inheritance, if I can? Find a wife, live a quiet life. The proletariat dream, eh?
He blew out the pilot and cranked the dial of the gas all the way open, ready to face the music. Climbing off the bed, he walked over to his nightstand. He opened the drawer to recover Rovena’s letter, and promptly folded it, sliding it into the interior pocket of his waistcoat.
Though it would take a good while for the gas to fill the room sufficiently, Tor opted to not dawdle in the bomb that was swiftly becoming his home. He grabbed his hooded gum blanket and slipped it on. He stepped out into the foyer, and turned down a corridor towards the kitchen. His intent was to leave through the servant’s entrance, but could not resist a last raid of the pantry.
The pantry was immense, to say it lightly. It was a cacophony of smells, pleasurable to the senses — Cooking spices and the blending of savory and sweet smells bombarded him. He quickly pilfered a good handful of dried meats and cheeses, and snatched a bottle of bolah, a cornwhiskey. Though a good age, it would not entirely be intended for his gut. His wounds needed to be dealt with.
Still, there’s nothing wrong with a satisfied pallet before you destroy your house, Tor reasoned. With good reason, too. It might be a while before he could enjoy such pleasantries again.
He was quick to leave after his final trip to the pantry. The strength of his hunger was powerful, but not too powerful as to trap him in the house. With swiftness, he made his way back, out the servant’s entrance. The rain had intensified, falling steadily and strong. The thunder was noticeably heavier, roaring soon after the lightning flashed above.
Were the patio not so miserable this night, it would be a comfortable little spot. Regina made for herself a small haven away from her labors, a bench sitting under a rose-covered trellis. Tor spied a potter near the bench, littered with little cigarette butts. He was sorry her spot would be destroyed in the blast, but considering the percentage of his fortune he'd leave for her in the event of an early death, it would build this patio many times over.
He could not stay too long, and he continued down the stone path leading to the back gate. Its padlock had been snapped open, which Tor first thought there was a key involved, but he looked closer to see tiny scratch marks which shone in the light of a nearby lamp. The assassin was also a lockpicker, it seemed.
Tor gently pushed the gate, minimizing the subtle squeak that registered when he pushed it. His whole body tensed as it jumped down the back alley, trying to wake up every neighbor. After a few heartbeats, he dashed.
Though the city seemed more alive at this time of night, he was alone. The slaps of his footpads on the carved stone lightly reverberated past the buildings he skirted past, splish-splashing through puddles and wet pavement. His mind was blank. He could only think about the escape. The further continued to race, the greater his wounds began to ache more. His chest tore lightning through him as his draw for breath grew strong.
Any moment, now, he thought. He looked back. Nothing yet. He halted his run to gaze back a little longer. He stood for a small while, the rain beginning to fall heavier down his gum blanket. From his angle, the brown tile looked serene in the gaslights glowing in the higher tiers. Did I do everything right?
He was about to walk back to check on the estate, but a terrible roar soon struck the night. A hot wave blew past him, causing him to stumble. Behind the hedges of the estates around him, he heard the abrupt crash of windows exploding in their panes. An incredible fireball accompanied the explosion, illuminating the world around him in deep, harsh reds. The roof of his stately home flew above the earth like a way Tor had never seen before, the tile blasting across the skyline, smoke trailing behind each piece. Tor was awestruck, but couldn’t help but be unnerved.
No turning back now.
It wasn’t unusual to see the constabulary airfleet to be at active at night. In fact, it was normal to see a clipper loom above, scanning the darkness. But tonight, it was different. Their spotlights were ablaze, and unnatural, white arclights blasted artificial moonlight across every building imaginable. The whistle calls and choral yells echoed past every wall from the city gates to the top of the Spire.
This awoke a very groggy Rovena, who, just minutes prior, finally drifted off to sleep after a long trek down from the Mask. She knew she couldn’t sleep when this ruckus went on, not when the constables found their next victim. Though, she was sure it was related that that rough rumble that shook her little home just moments before she found peace in her pillow.
Now she sat on her modest loveseat, cradling a cooled cup of camomile, trying desperately to get back to sleep. A hard night always kept her awake, what with the grabbing, the fondling, the unsavory comments. Oh, it happens every night or so, but it’s especially worse when a rowdy group of officers stroll through during the season’s army post transfers. Even worse when it’s stormy out, she lamented. All they want to do is stay inside.
She shivered as she recalled that one officer, calling for That Stone girl. Heavy-set, reeked of sirralah, thought he was the ladies tiercel of his little entourage — She knew the type. He made the mistake of wearing his gorget around to show off the shiny copper aiguillettes strung through it — She smirked, guessing he just made lieutenant — But it was too obvious the lad hadn’t touched an eagless since he left his mother’s womb.
He was nothing like that Tor, though. She grinned. Aye, I want more like him. A little warmth tickled her kindly as her grin grew to a smile.
She thanked the Six the night was over, but cursed whomever it was who made this racket happen. Her mind rolled through a list of possible suspects — The Metal Shapers Union, the Union of Independent Crafters, or the Interdependent Workers of the West, maybe?
Rovena’s ears perked at the sound of clambering outside her door, louder than the rainstorm that battled the constables outside. Her tail wrapped tight around her leg, hoping to restrict her movement. But the noise grew louder, causing her curiosity to bubble. She put down her tea, blew out the oil lamp on the end table, then tiptoed to the door. She carefully navigated the maze of buckets that caught the leaks from the ceiling.
As she cracked the door open, a mixed group of gryphs and zebs trotted down the cracked concrete road. Their numbers were high, maybe fifty in total. Rain splattered around, pouring like waterfalls down from the gutters. Though the sky was full of lightning, it seemed to have channeled through the group, and the electricity was hot on their tongues.
“Was it us?” A passerby asked, his zebra face scrunched together in concern.
The gryph he spoke to shook her head and replied, “No way. No one woulda been that crazy. The other unions would’ve given us a heads up, don’t ye think?”
Different flavors of this question bounced from person to person, all asking about who did it. Rovena didn’t know what group this was, or what they were doing, but it seemed like something big. Before she could even think about it, the telltale, shrill cry of a pea whistle rang, and bounced in her head. As it reverberated through the street, the group yelled in response, and a stampede shook the world around them.
Rovena, in a frightened response, shut her door and bolted it, sliding down the three locks one by one. As quickly as they fled, the platoon of constables followed. She could feel the power of their shouts through the door, and the bloodthirsty barks of their mastiffs caused her blood to run cold. Her talons shook as she slid the last lock into place, praying to the Six almighty they didn’t come to her door.
She crouched against the flimsy wood and her tail gripped her leg again. Her lovely, snowy wings slowly creeped around her, hoping to shield her from whatever terror had begun to wash past. Her heart tried to leap out of her chest as the terrifying sounds of combat began. The unholy fury of the mortal being summoned itself upon the innocent homes of the downtrodden. Metal clashed against metal, stone and glass, and the furious shouts of the working class came upon one another wave after wave. The dogs barked and squealed, and so did their victims — The combat ended as quickly as it started, ending with whatever party retreating further into the quarter. A few whimpers remained, slowly falling silent as their arrests were made.
Many minutes passed as grunting voices moved past her door again, cursing at their victims. Rovena could tell they belonged to the constables, as the dogs always snuffled at doors after a raid.
“C’mon, ye spekkin’ sod, move yer arse!” A voice said. A muffled “Oof” followed — Blackjacks tended to knock the breath out of their victims.
Another voice: “Comrade, ye don’t under —” She was cut short by wet thwack and a painful shout.
“Don’t comrade me, ye bloody little unionite!” Rovena couldn’t hear what the constable was saying after that, as she covered her ears. She didn’t want to hear that again.
Whatever opinion she had of the unions — of which she had several — now wasn’t the time to think about it. All she had to do was wait for the shouts to end. Wait for the dogs to leave. Wait for everyone to go home to bed. Wait…
Wait…
Wait…
She slowly peeled her talons from her ears. She squeezed so hard that they suctioned when she pulled them away. Though they shook, she noticed that they were slowly losing its severity.
She halted everything for an agonizing few seconds, her ears sensitive to every little sound around her. No more constables. All that was left was the pattering rain and the gentle thunder.
Rovena didn’t realize she was holding her breath, and her chest heaved under her chemise. She placed a light talon to it, feeling her heart slowly calm itself. She focused on the steady dripping of the water into her buckets, the only peaceful cadence following her into the night.
She exhaled again, this time with a relieved chuckle. Thank the Six, she said to herself. Thank you so much. She pushed herself back up from the wood floor, and gave her wings a quick stretch. They always liked to cramp when strained so hard like that, which, she’d think would at least be more resilient after doing it so much. But, she tried to forget it, like she always did, and was determined to fall back asleep. There was always something wanting to come to her door, be it the landlord, the union spokesperson, or some young lad asking for a —
Tap tap tap.
Rovena stopped midstep. Surely it was just a phantom she heard. Nothing real. Nothing was at her door.
Tap tap tap. Then the thunder rumbled again.
She closed her eyes and cursed under her breath, regretting her prayers. The constables never liked being ignored. They hate having to wait, and they especially hate having to deal with a good-for-nothing like a blazed.
“Just a moment,” she shakily called out. Her whole body quivered as she reached over to the coat rack, pulling down a woolen shawl. She fumbled with it, it continuing to be stuck on a peg. She cursed again, terrified of what a constable's rage might be after a total brawl outside of her door. The possibilities rushed through her head — She squeezed her eyes together briefly, hoping to the Six that the worst would never happen. She was lucky thus far.
She finally was able to get the cloth around her, finding some comfort in its scratchy fibers. She tried to keep herself as steady as she could, taking a deep breath. Then, she went down her deadbolts one by one, each unlocking with a heavy thunk. As she undid the last one, she was afraid the door would be pushed in, but to her surprise, there wasn’t a forced entry. She sighed again, relieved.
He's feeling generous tonight, she concluded.
Though as she opened the door, her eyes widened at the hooded figure who stood before her.
“Rovena,” he simply said. It was that same, tall tiercel with the golden irises. His handsome face was now terribly besmirched and bedraggled, and his eyes were as wide as hers, frantic and afraid. Their breathing was both erratic, but she doubted it was for the same reasons.
“Lord Razorwing,” she muttered, suddenly losing the ability to find any other words. Her focus on him dulled the sounds of the rain around her, hyper focusing on him alone.
“I’m sorry to come upon you like this,” he continued. He pulled his hood down, revealing more of the damage to his face. “But I was hoping I could ask for refuge.”
Tor cupped the cracked teacup like it was the last thing keeping him tied to the world. His eyes were wide and alert. His breathing was deep and controlled, where he was doing all he could to refrain from hyperventilating. He couldn’t believe anything had happened — The explosion, the constabulary's hunt, everything. Needless to say, he was beginning to question his sanity.
He brought the cup to the tip of his beak, and it chattered against the keratin. He tried to take a sip of the lukewarm tea, but he refrained. He sighed with defeat. Pulling the cup back, he took a look at it — It was covered in an outdated pink flower-on-white style, and previously shattered, pasted together by a simple epoxy. It was accompanied by a little, mismatched blue saucer.
Cute, was all he could really think. The first cohesive thought he had in a while. For the past hour, he was awash in raw emotions and incohesive brain fog, trying to comprehend anything he did. His whole gut finally eased, and his dizziness subsided.
He felt his body slowly tense up again; He remembered avoiding the constables, trailing down every back alley he could find — It was just as bad as the survival training he had back in the service. Avoiding traps, alarms and the prying eyes of his instructors.
However, this wasn’t just a test of his abilities, but a test of his resolve. At every turn, he was tempted to show himself back to the authorities, to say he was alright. It was all a mistake, he wanted to say. Nothing wrong here! Just had a slip up at home… terrible shame about everyone there.
Tor nearly slapped himself. Ugh! You bastard!
He sighed, and rubbed his temples. He was reminded of the first time he left for the frontier. After growing up all his life in a big city, being thrown into a small, country town on the mino border. It was much the same way — far from home, far from everything he knew, everything he loved. A pit seemed to open up in his stomach, and all he wanted to do was to allow himself to be thrown into it.
And quite the adventure you’ve thrown yourself into, lad, he thought, grunting a gutteral chuckle. Mother would be… Six above, more than furious. Well, mama, if you can see me from Sarmma, be sure to give me a laugh after you slap me.
Tor tried to drink his tea again, and this time, was able to take a sip. He then pressed his head against the cup with a sigh. His shoulders loosened, and his body followed suite. The chair he sat on creaked lightly as he sat back, it shifting slightly with his weight. As he leaned back, he took in the rest of Rovena’s abode.
It was small. So much so that it could fit within the confines of his former foyer. He could imagine where his old, massive door was, the entrance to the dining room, and the front chambers. Instead of the faded and worn wood flooring, his classic black-and-white checkerboard tile. Where the hovel’s door was, he could see the portraits of his family members, from Alana all the way to him, reminders of his ancient legacy. They were all copies, fortunately — And miniaturized over the years. Twenty five full-sized portraits on a wall would be too crowded.
While he was imagining all of these portraits, an unfamiliar face joined the suite. She was a little more delicate than most, not sporting the Razorwing gold eyes. Certainly one who wouldn’t look out of —
“Mister Razorwing,” she said, knocking Tor from his haze. He blinked, pulling himself back into reality. He remembered he had a teacup in his talons, its contents still swimming idly inside its pearly belly. It flashed luminescent briefly as lightning blinked from a distant cloud.
“Are you alright?” Rovena strolled over across from him, gently easing herself into her loveseat. She replaced her shawl from earlier with a lighter, blue-toned dressing gown. As she sat, a warmer cup of tea sat delicately in her manicured talons, steam lightly wafting. Against the glow of the oil lamp, she looked absolutely picturesque. If her headfeathers didn’t bounce with the shade of scarlet, Tor would’ve taken her as another aristocratic eagless joining him at the cafe.
Tor took another slow sip. “I’m okay.” He looked away, furrowing his brow. “At least, I think I am.”
Rovena sat silent. She knew what happened to him. The moment he walked in, he couldn’t stop himself from telling her everything he knew, what he did, what happened to him. It was as if he had to tell someone. He couldn’t remember the emotions that poured from him. Was he afraid? Angry? Relieved? He didn’t even consider the fact that she, a relatively unknown person in his life, could go to the authorities and turn him in. If the forum captured him? Death. Immediately.
But the law would still be harsh regardless of capture — Arson is not a charge that simply affects one class, after all.
But she didn’t do anything about it. She didn’t tell him to stay and wait while she grabbed the constable. She helped him take his gum blanket off, grabbed his pack and told him to rest. She gave him a chair, gave him some tea, and gave him her time.
He’d give anything just to know what she thought.
“I hope I haven’t upset you, miss Rovena,” Tor said, keeping himself from hanging his head. “I know that having a guest this late is a little —”
“Sir,” she interrupted. Her eyes were wide and glowing, as if taking in all of his pathetic features. She simply traced a talon around the lip of her cup. “I think I can forgive anything like this when the situation is so drastic, don’t you think?” She had a quiet voice, like all the other times she spoke to him. But tonight, there was something different in her candor, a sort of familiar power behind that softness.
But, her body betrayed her feelings. She was tense, and closed up. Her arms were crooked close to her body. Her legs clamped together at the knees. At a moment’s notice, she could immediately leap up and out the foggy window to their sides.
“I suppose,” Tor replied. He wanted to say more to her, but he couldn’t muster anything. Instead, he relaxed himself, hoping to impart the same feeling to her. He didn’t want her to feel frightened. But here he was, invading her home.
“Well,” he managed to push out, looking back to her eyes. “How are you feeling?”
Rovena brushed talon over her ear, pulling the thumb and forefinger across it gently. It was her turn to look away, glancing at her tea. “I’m mixed,” she said simply. She jolted suddenly, and the tea moved about with a plop. “I mean, I’m not mixed for you being here, I mean, well, I am, just… well, I just can’t believe that this is going on.”
She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. “After that explosion, you hurt a lot of people tonight.” Tor leaned back a bit, not sure how to take it. “You hurt a lot more than you thought you would, I think.”
“I don’t think I hurt anyone, Rovena,” Tor responded.
“No, Tor.” She seemed to surprise herself when she said his name aloud, visually recoiling by squeezing her legs together more. “No. You hurt more than you realized, even more than that assassin, or inadvertently, those guards of yours.”
Tor’s ears flipped back onto his skull, and his scowl began to furl. “Rovena, if anything, they were casualties of a greater conflict brewing. My sacrifice was the first step to securing the lives of my comrades in the senate!”
Rovena sighed, but still smiled, with a wizened aura emanating from her. She knew something Tor didn’t seem to know yet. She moved closer to Tor, sitting on a sturdy little stool next to him. “I am not trying to make light of your…” She sat momentarily, mulling the word over. “Your forfeiture. You have forsaken everything you have ever had for, admittedly, a noble thing.” Her smile faded slowly as she spoke. “But before those intentions come the actions, and their consequences.”
Where in Tartarus does she think she’s coming from? Tor asked himself. And to talk of the uprooting of my life so lightly! He was so tempted to stand and walk out of her little home. Tempted to grab his bag and slam that Six damned door!
“You don’t understand,” he defended himself. He did all he could to keep himself from standing, so his tail stood for him. “I have done something that most likely has helped the whole of the Confederacy! Don’t you understand? By satisfying the bloodlust of the forum, we might be able to offer up some resistance against whatever they’re planning!”
Rovena calmly patted the air in front of her with a talon. “Yes, but you have to understand all the lives that you hadn’t considered! You had helped your friends-in-arms, but you must understand that the rest of the world around you feels those ripples.”
“Nonsense. This was an internal affair. If you’re talking about the whole of the city’s constables out in the sky, it's because of such an important incident! I was ‘killed,’ so to speak. Remember?”
“But you’re not —” she took a small, sharp breath “— Your fake death is a notable one, yes. But you need to realize that they did more than check your home — they were here, in the lower wards.” She pointed with an open hand to her door, and it was as if she were a boiler was about to burst. “The constabulary prowl the streets wantonly, and won’t hesitate to challenge the unions — And unfortunately, the unions will graciously engage! I don’t know how many lads and lasses were out there, but I know lives were lost tonight due to your carelessness, Tor!”
“Stop addressing me by my name!” Tor bellowed, standing. “And you address me like a commoner? My actions make everything nothing by — !” He caught himself, stopping his rant as Rovena started to recoil. She pulled the teacup up against her chest, and shook like a leaf.
Tor’s tail fell against the back of the chair, and his gaze fell. His stomach twisted in knots, and a heat began to sting his ears. The girl hid herself behind the teacup, and a gentle tinkling of the cup on the saucer started to take up the silence of the room.
“Rovena, please. I’m —”
“Tor,” she peeped up. “P-please do not walk into my home and berate me!”
Tor’s ears burned like a furnace, and his head hung. “Yes, I know and —”
Rovena’s eyes were glossy, and a red hue hugged their edges. “I will allow your outburst, Tor. I know you’re under a lot of stress. However —” she pointed a stern hand at him, her scowl returning “— you need to realize that you’re not on the highest tier any longer! You’re down here in the muck with me and everyone else!”
Rovena’s shaming took him by surprise — She had the conviction of a union agitator, and he had never heard her with such passion before.
By the Six, he thought. I wouldn’t want to be caught betwixt her anger — There is a fire in her belly begging to be stoked!
He also had another realization: Is there another reason she’s decided to shame me?
It was as if Rovena had read his mind, and her head fell. “I’m sorry. Again, I know what you’re feeling right now. You’re feeling conflicted and scared, and… Well, I know, Tor. I used to be where you were a long time ago.”
Tor cocked his head to the side, furling his brow. “What do you mean?”
Rovena sighed and took a sip of tea. Her whole body seemed to have eased with the sip. She then let her eyes align with Tor’s. “I used to be on the mountain. I am — was — Ursula Quartaeus, third in line to inherit the Quartaeus estate.”
Tor’s eyes widened as he heard her name. He caught himself beginning to leave his seat to bow to her. The name was absolutely ancient compared to every other modern name of the gryphon peoples. Quartaeus was a name that predates the fall of the old republic, and has survived until the modern day. He couldn’t believe her words, so much that as he tried to respond, his beak hung open with no response.
Rovena was somewhat jovial as her smile started to creep back. “I know it’s a little strange to hear, but, here I am.” She gestured to the rest of the small hovel. “It’s not like the old estate, but it’s my home. It’s why I told you I’ve visited the upper tiers before.”
“I can’t believe it,” Tor finally muttered. “Your death was —”
“A lie,” Rovena said bluntly.
He was only peripherally aware of Rovena back then. She was an up and coming debutante of her late mother, Lady Romilia Quartaeus. She made her rounds about the noble houses years before he left for the frontier. Though he had never seen her before, he was sure his parents were attempting to get her into one of their parties at some point. But when he returned, he was sure she was dead.
“Remarkable,” he mused. “Did they just… crash a whole airship for this? Why would they even bother such an elaborate reason?”
“Because they wanted me out of the picture, and it was easier to do that than make my blazing a public spectacle.” Rovena sighed and looked away momentarily. “My parents were involved with it, too — They wanted to save face and not share the shame that I was cast aside by Iolo Highwind for the better pick.”
“Highwind!” Tor exclaimed, slapping an open talon to his forehead. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This was Maia’s husband! “I had no idea he was going to marry someone else!”
“That time has passed, Tor,” Rovena explained. “I was cast aside for Maia. Her family had better connections to the Senate. She wasn’t consul yet, but she was on the rise, and sure to have the vote after Prydwen Whitetail.” She sighed, sporting a small, melancholy grin. “My name is old, weighty and respected, but we’re not consuls anymore. When was the last time you even thought of my sister?”
“Mercia has a stellar record when it comes to discussing the nuances of the laws,” Tor said.
“But she doesn’t have that same charisma, does she? The same clout? That’s how it is with Maia. I would’ve led a good life were I not cast away for her, all things considered.”
“What caused that?”
“His father, first of all. The general.”
Tor nodded, understanding. “He was always a traditionalist.”
Rovena nodded as well. “And for that, he was traditionally minded enough say what was best for his son. Iolo and I were close, but you’ll notice he wasn’t exactly clamoring to get me back up the mountain.” She gestured again to the room, the sounds of water dripping intensifying with the storm outside.
She sighed. “He’s just like his father.”
Tor rubbed under his beak. “I don’t mean to make light of your exile, but, Six! There should’ve been a better way! Someway for you to come back out with your dignity!”
Rovena was quiet, allowing the rain to spill longer. She simply sat there, rubbing her eyes. “I’d rather not talk about it now, Tor.” She looked away and took a long draw from her tea. “What’s important to know is that I was cast away for someone’s political gain. Sometimes, we’re just the means to an end.” She looked back to Tor, her wings creeping out to encompass her frame. She was silent again, and stared down to the floor, lost in thought.
Tor couldn’t even begin to guess what caused her to feel this way, and he felt his body tensing just considering it all. Iolo, his family, Rovena’s relationship with him… Six above, it’s enough to make my head spin! I can’t imagine the pain she has experienced. Then his stomach tightened again, causing his ears to flip back. Here I was, a prissy little whelp.
He rose and placed his cup down, grabbing the blanket that Rovena gave him earlier in the evening. He wrapped it around the eagless, pulling her from her daze. She looked up to Tor.
“I shouldn’t have spoken up to you. I allowed my ignorance to get the best of me, and I’m incredibly sorry.” Tor sat next to her again. “I guess… I’m lost.”
Rovena nodded, taking some time to respond by taking another drink. “We’re both lost, Tor. Before my betrothal, I knew what my life would lead to. I knew I’d have a good, long, comfortable life. Maybe even have a family.” She sighed. “But these days, I’m not sure.”
“I know that I made a choice, whereas you did not have one. But I think that we can support one another.” He stood and walked to his bag across the hovel. After a few moments of digging, he returned with the bag of coins he pulled together back at the estate.
“I offer my last few pieces to help you. I can probably take half of this and find my own home down here.”
“N-no!” Rovena sputtered out. She straightened herself and continued: “No, don’t think of it, Tor.” He noticed that she was becoming more comfortable saying his name, using it with more confidence. “If anything, I should offer my home to you. We can consolidate our resources — I think that if we work together, we can make a good living.”
Tor was about to agree, but he caught himself. A mischievous grin then slid across his mouth. “What about your neighbors? A strange tiercel walking into your home, and living with you?” He was a more progressive sort of gryph, but there were still some who weren’t happy with the prospect of an unwed eagless being with with an unwed tiercel.
Rovena cackled a raspy laugh, catching Tor by surprise, who couldn’t help from laughing himself. “No, there shouldn’t be any problem with that,” she replied after calming down. “This neighborhood has a lot of particular unionites here. They don’t tolerate people enforcing what they’d call ‘antiquated living.’ We’re safe.”
She giggle a little. “It’s not like we’re together, anyway.”
“Of course.” He smiled, but his tail wagged without him wanting to. “But your idea? A sound strategy.”
He walked over to the windowsill and poured the coins out onto the wood. Rovena joined him, her eyes twinkling at the shimmering metals. “I wasn’t able to count everything, but this should last us a little while, I hope.”
He fingered the coins around, slowly counting them. Ninty-five, one hundred, one hundred —
“Six hundred and forty wholes,” Rovena gasped, covering her mouth.
“A quick counter, eh, Rovena?” Tor asked, impressed.
“This is more than my year’s salary!” She twiddled with the coins between her fingers. “Six above…!”
“This?” Tor was shocked, inspecting a few coins. He was dumbfounded. “I had this lying around my home. How could you only live off of six hundred a year?”
“I’m not rich, Tor,” Rovena said. “It takes me a month just to make fifty sovereigns.” She rolled a talon through her scarlet headfeathers. “Six above.”
“Well, what do you normally worry about?” Tor had to think about expenses — This was probably the first time in his entire life he had to consider the idea of bills and sustenance. He was so used to just having that he never considered ever needing something. What do people normally need? Food? Home? Clothing?
“Well, at least twenty sovereigns for rent.” She slipped that number out aside from the pile. “Then I probably spend about fifteen for food —” Another pile “— another ten for clothes and hemming.” It left five.
The feathers on the back of Tor’s neck stood up. Five wholes could barely afford him a bottle of cheap mel’ah. “You’re kidding,” he simply said.
“And this place isn’t even worth bloody twenty. Probably ten, at the most. Landlord likes to charge up but only because he wants a little more in his pocket.” She crossed her arms, either ignoring what Tor said, or not hearing him. “I hear the unionites in this quarter are trying to buy the four story building down the street and do something with it. Whatever it is, it’d be cheaper than living here.”
Tor snatched up the five coins. “This is all you live off of? I knew that the plebs lived lower than the nobles, but this is just so little!”
Rovena gave him a sad smile and a chuckle. “Yeah.”
“You lived up there, Rovena.” Tor pointed up towards the direction of the rest of the city. “You know that our clothes are worth more than what you make in a year.” He tugged at his waistcoat. “This thing is worth, at least, four hundred!”
“That’s the difference between the first tier and the eleventh. We used to have clothing made of silks and linens, and now we have to wear cottons and wools.” She stretched out the gown she wore. “This is probably one of the few satins that I still have.”
Tor flopped down onto the rocking chair, a weight falling on him as he took it all in. “Six!” He exclaimed. “I can’t imagine living like this, Rovena. It’s just so overwhelming.”
“You will adapt,” she replied, placing a gentle talon on Tor’s shoulder. “You said were on the frontier, once? If you can trek the Athenian mountains and live off of kahve grounds, I think you can do this.”
“Yes,” Tor murmured, idly patting her talon. Then, as he was struck by an urge, he shot up, briefly startling the lass. “Yes! I will! If I can do that, I can get through this.”
“Aye,” Rovena simply said. “You’ll find your footing, Tor.”
It was that calm serenity one feels after a long night of jubilance. The dust gently danced between beams of gold sunlight that bled through the blinds. A gentle murmur of voices rang from the outside, telling the room that the world was carrying on without them. But, this world seemed far away to the room’s inhabitants. What it inspired them to do was to slowly wake, defiant of the hustle and bustle.
Their room was reasonably sized, as some dorm rooms are. Paneled wainscotting hugged the walls, bordered on top with a warm scarlet. Its oaken floors were recently polished, only partially obscured by the plethora of clothing that seemed to grow endlessly from between the panels. They led from the door to a simple, four poster bed in the middle of the room, which sagged heavy with use from long days past.
Who first awoke was a scrawny-looking zebra, whose striped mane stuck out in every direction. He was unphased by the rat’s nest, and simply shrugged his shoulders before a good stretch, pulling every fiber straight. His long groan shook his body, pulling him ever-so slightly back from the fringes of consciousness.
His noise caused his bedmate’s ears to flick at the sound, which was joined by a heavy sigh. She pushed herself from her pillow, hanging her head to stretch it. Her talons gently kneaded the sheets as she continued to stretch — arching her back, straightening her legs, and unfurling her wings. A labored moan escaped her as her body too came back to the land of the living.
She shuddered briefly as a calm hoof lined her spine. Memories of the past night gently tingled her nethers, causing her tail to wag.
“Alun,” she cooed. “You know I’d love another round, but —”
“I know,” Alun replied, opting just to stroke her side. “But you have to admit, we’re just so compatible.”
The eagless chuckled, falling onto her side to face him. “Did we have to go so long, though? Today is too important to be sleeping in” — she playfully jabbed his barrel — “and we’re gonna be late if we don’t hurry.” She reached up to stroke Alun’s face, rubbing a thumb over his cheek.
Alun took a deep breath and tightened his teeth together, trying to calm himself. “I hate when you do that, Hazel.” He pulled the sheets closer to him. “Not that I don’t like it, but I hurt right now, you understand?”
Hazel giggled, playfully punching him on the shoulder. “You bawdy zeb! That thing is gonna snap off if you don’t keep it under control!”
“What?” He asked in mock defense. “I’m to blame here? While you throw about your callous hunger for the pleasures of the flesh?” He forced his head away, looking to the ceiling. “I’m offended, madam. Offended!”
She crawled over onto him, pushing her delicate beak against his snout. “'Tis more than a hunger. But unlike a certain other person, I at least have the mind to refrain.”
“That’s not what I heard last night,” Alun challenged, pushing himself at her through the sheets. The eagless visibly shuddered at the touch, gently nibbling on her tongue.
“Ah, but —” he pulled back, lying flat “— you’re right as always.”
“Alun, you speckin’ little tease, you.”
He flashed a cocky smirk. “Don’t tell me you don’t like it.”
Hazel was silent for a moment, scowling. But she eventually squeaked out, “I do.” She then grabbed him from under the sheets, capturing him between the legs. “And I know you like it when I tease you.”
Alun inhaled sharply, baring his teeth. She let go just as quickly, smiling devilishly.
“I knew I had a reason to stay with you,” he said as she dismounted.
Hazel pulled on her chemise, tightening the drawstrings. “Good, I was afraid our conversations were the only reason!”
“It makes for some passable pillow talk,” Alun responded, pulling on his shirt. After he pushed its frilled collar up, he pulled at the cuffs, tightening them. “Would you mind tying these, please?”
She chuckled as she grabbed the first hoof and began tying. “Passable? Here I thought the classics meant more to you?”
“No, it was just to get you into bed.”
“You’re lucky Starswirl’s musings are a real turn on, Alun.” She finished up tying the cuffs. “There you are.”
“Thank you.” He slid on his jacket, while admiring Hazel pulling on her corset. “You know how Equestrians like to write. All that fluff and romance. Makes adoring their queen so much easier, don’t you think?”
“Princess, dear,” she corrected. “I suppose it’s a simple way to put it, though — Call it indoctrination, propaganda, what have you. When you have something in place for so long, wouldn’t you consider heaping praise onto it?”
He grunted he pulled his hoof comb through his mane. “Think about all the poetry and prose that we’ve made about what we have. How many lines are there that glorifies Thy Glim’ring Spire? But in our case, we compare ourselves to every other nation — We are the crown jewel of the world’s exceptions. How many democracies can you think of outside of ours and the Prench?”
“Glimmering, indeed!” She tied the last pull on her corset. “We’re not innocent, of course. I mean, take Bluefeathers’ works, for example — They were love letters to fathers or ancestors of whatever warlord patronized him back before the Resurgence.”
“Probably to survive.”
Hazel nodded sagely. “Naturally. But it’s the same thing here — Patriots aren’t paupers.”
Alun smiled, securing his baldric. “I like that. Maybe I’ll throw that into a speech.”
“Ah! Speaking of which!” Hazel walked over to a bag hanging on one of the posters of the bed, pulling out a small pamphlet. She opened it up and traced a finger across the details. “I want us to go to this convention next month. The student unions from Rasorgi, Kaelgot and Aethelmearc will be there — You keep saying we need to coordinate just like the labor unions, this is one of the best opportunities to do it!”
“Good eye on that one, Hazel, I’ll pass it onto the marshal. One union can maybe affect one campus, but the whole country would be better.” Alun shifted himself in his jacket, shaking the frills out of the sleeves. “I’m getting tired of doing this alone!”
“After today’s demonstration, it’ll be more than enough to show everyone that we’re capable.” She walked over and rested the underside of her jaw on his head. Alun smiled, feeling her breath flush down the back of his neck. They sat in silence for a few moments, taking in the arua. They felt each other’s warmth, a needed sensation as the days grew colder. Hazel pulled a smock over them briefly, if only to savor it for a little while longer.
They heard the bustle outside grow to a consistent din, voices rolling in like the crash of a wave on the shore. What was once a simple, pastoral morning was beginning to feel like the start of a hurricane, which could’ve been mistaken as any other student gathering. Outside their door, they heard the stomping of students and the rushing of voices. The sounds of preparation gathered, as affirmations of readiness and the gathering of supplies echoed through the hall.
Hazel broke their silence. “Are you ready?”
Alun nodded, feeling the butterflies in his stomach go wild. “As ready as I can be.”
A knock thumped at the door, breaking the two apart. “Misser Alun!” A voice cried. “Ye up yet?”
“Aye, aye!” Alun cried back, pulling out of the embrace. Under his breath: “Hold on, you specker...”
Hazel giggled and shoved the zebra forward. “Don’t be mean to Rudy! He’s just looking out for you.”
Alun slipped on his stove pipe hat that hung by the door — his favorite — and pulled its arched brim to cover his eyes. “Yeah, but when he interrupts you while you’re undressing your bedmate, you get a little irate.”
She gave him a knowing smirk. “That was only once.”
“It’s the principle, dar—”
“Misser Alun! ‘Urry up, the lads’re gettin’ antsy!” There was something else Rudy said, but that was probably the incoherent mumbling he was privy to.
“Yeah, okay!” Alun exclaimed as he opened the door. Before him, a massive hunk of muscle stood on coiled back legs, whose barrel puckered at the wool waistcoat stretched across it. Rudy was huge by gryphon standards. Easily seven feet tall, and built like a brick shit house.
“Misser Alun,” he said, rolling through the words like a river babbles over stones. “Good mornin’ — Ye slept well, I ‘ope?”
Before Alun replied, Hazel giggled again. “Don’t worry about that, Rudy. I made sure he slept like a baby.”
He was happy his hat hid his ears, because they became blisteringly hot and red. “Y-yes, of course, Hazel,” Alun stammered. Rudy chortled, trying to hide his laugh behind a massive talon.
“Oh, aye, I bet ‘e got a right solid rest, ‘Azel.” He looked back down to Alun. “The lads ‘ve grabbed the rest of the union on campus, and we’re waitin’ fer ya downstairs.” He backed up suddenly, allowing a group to clamber through with signs hanging off of them. They passed with a litany of apologies. “Well, most of ‘em.”
“At least we have them.” Alun sighed. “Minus Bryanne, unfortunately.”
“Speckin’ bastards.” Rudy tightened a talon into a fist. “Like she’d blow up a speckin’ noble’s house! Why, I oughta grab me a piece of the specker who took ‘er…”
“That isn’t going to change anything, lads — especially with such naughty language, Rudy,” Hazel said, showing a playful disapproval. Rudy looked away bashfully.
“What we need to worry about now is the good fight.” She gestured down the hall and towards the front of the dorm. “We’ll get Bryanne back, but now’s not the time to feel sorry about it.”
The other two nodded. What’s the point of complaining about the past, when you can start working on a new future?
“Then let’s get moving,” Alun said, moving down the hallway. It was abuzz with more of their fellow union members, who were pulling on their coats, which had a gold lotuses stitched into their shoulders. Many were still slapping paint on signs and posting their banners. They all had a passing nod to Alun and his partners.
There was a charge in the air, that bound everyone together in a common cause. The feeling twinged every hair and shocked every feather. A smile tugged at every mouth — it was too easy to share one. It was as if a band had started to play a song and stoked a fire in their bellies.
Alun had no doubts in his mind. He never even considered the idea that he could call it all off, and tell everyone to go home. What he did instead was to remind himself to remember this feeling for the rest of his life — The jubilancy, the solidarity and the hope! It was like a deep sip of melah, its intoxicating embrace filling his body with a certain giddiness.
He wanted more.
He turned to his muscular friend after squeezing through another group of students. “Has the marshal arrived, Rudy?”
“Aye. Still frettin’ over ‘er speech, as always.” Rudy chortled again. “Funny ‘ow she gets so nervous, but once she starts speakin’, she’s all milk an’ ‘oney.”
“Where is she now?”
“Common room on the ground floor. The RAs convinced the Hall Director to let ‘er ‘ave some space.” He waved them towards the nearest stairwell and they descended.
A swirling cacophony of smells saturated in the tight stairwell, all originating from the dormitory kitchens. The welcoming scents of cumin and clove dominated the senses, allowing them to accurately guess what their comrades were cooking. As they exited into the ground floor, they could see curries, rice and breads all on a single table closest to the kitchen. It was a good, hardy meal for a long day.
The ground floor was much the same as the third floor: A madhouse. It was full of zebs and gryphs of all kinds, readying themselves for the event. That same electricity upstairs seemed to have originated from down here, and everyone rushing upstairs were the conductors. He admired everyone’s energy, which beamed with determination and earnestness.
Alun left Hazel and Rudy at the closed doors of the common room, which had a pleasant and respectful “Please Do Not disturb” sign hanging from a hook above the door’s handle.
He gave a little knock. A frustrated voice replied: “Yes! What is it?!”
“It’s Alun, Beatrice! Can I come in?”
“Alun!” There was a short silence between her responses. “Of course you can. Let yourself in!”
Alun slid the door open to see the marshal placing an acoustic megaphone back on an end table. Her beak clamped on an elegant, eagle-feathered quill by the nib, fluttering about as she moved her head. Alun was thankful she hadn’t gotten any of the ink on her clothes, as that promenade dress looked exquisite on her.
“How are you holding up?” He asked, trotting over to her. Her notes were scrawled all over with her signature chicken scratch, which always took him by surprise. Wasn’t she trying to get into medicine? He asked himself.
“Frazzled,” Beatrice replied, pushing a talon through her head feathers. “As always.” Light streaks of ink were littered across her talons, which seemed to have left marks across her head feathers.
“Sounds like the status quo,” he noted, idly looking over her parchment. He pulled on his cravat slightly. The heat from the bodies in the lobby stacked on top of the active fireplace here in the common room.
“Looks like you’ve changed a little about what you were preparing.” Her language was eloquent, but there were some parts that seemed...
A slight scowl bounced across his brow as he read. “This is a little inflammatory, Beatrice. We’re trying to get everyone on our side, not possibly start a riot. The constabulary is on edge enough as is.”
“I thought it’d be poignant to include the student arrests,” Beatrice said, tapping a finger on a newspaper next to them. Its text was bold and big, detailing many names. “We maybe be protesting the class discrimination and the administration’s abuse of its funding, but I’ve seen signs demanding justice.” She grinned. “Six know I’d be shouting their names too.”
“You and me both,” Alun agreed, keeping a diplomatic tone, despite his uncertainty. “I think the constabulary is getting desperate.”
“They’re always desperate,” she replied. “Especially when a kind of political attack is involved.”
Alun grunted. “If it’s political.”
“Is Rudy feeding you his conspiracy theory again?”
“No, but he’s from Razorwing Province — Lord Razorwing was reported to be sympathetic to the plebs.” Alun trotted to the window facing the campus green and peeked around the curtains. There were even more students outside than there were inside, and were looking charged.
“He has no idea why anyone would ever want to kill him,” he continued. “And to be honest, I’m inclined to agree. One less Veronian is nice on the Six’s globe, but he could’ve been a key ally if things go south.”
He tried counting the amount of students out there, losing count somewhere after seventy-five. There were just so many. Their bodies obscured what was the white stone terrace, sitting and standing on just about everything from the retaining walls to the outside of the fountain. Their sound was buzzing through the windows at a low hum, slightly shaking the glass. Aside from their voices, the light beating of drums and baglama strumming joined the din.
He was surprised at the attendance — He was sure that there were more than students in the crowd. That zeb is looking mighty tall for a student...
“Is that Bohaarsa the Black?” Beatrice asked behind him, who was peering through over his head. After a closer inspection, he saw him, near the tall zebra. His black stripes were much wider than most, almost making him look like a pony.
“Wow, it is!” He exclaimed, suddenly smiling. “And look! That’s Caris Silverfist!” He pressed a hoof against the window. “Did you see her mural on the old warehouse on Coriander Boulevarde?”
“What in Tartarus is going on?” Beatrice ran her talon through her headfeathers again, bewildered.
“They heard of us, that’s what!” Alun’s tail started to wag, and his ears tried to push themselves through his hat. “I can’t believe these people are actually noticing us.” He pursed his lips briefly, and looked back to Beatrice. “Do you think there are a few unionites around there?”
Beatrice gave him a look of uncertainty and shrugged. “I have no idea — But whatever is going on, I intend for us to make a good example for them.” Her whole body shivered as energy ran down her, slightly puffing out the feathers on her chest. “Get everyone ready, vice marshal.”
“Aye aye, ma’am!” Alun exclaimed, giving her a salute. He trotted over to the doors and slipped through, a goofy smile on his face. Hazel and Rudy were still on standby, chatting idly with a few other students. Rudy looked over first, returning his own grin.
Rudy tried to keep his voice down: “And ‘ere I thought it was only ‘Azel who could give ye that kinda smile!”
Hazel punched Rudy’s shoulder, who responded with a pathetic whine. But she soon softened up, continuing: “What’s going on? Looks like Beatrice said the right thing to you.”
Alun’s smile grew wider. “The marshal and I saw some pretty important figures in the crowd outside — Bohaarsa the Black for example — and we got inspired to get things rolling.”
Rudy jutted his jaw forward — the closest thing a gryphon could do to pursing one’s lips — and his ears flipped erect. “What?!”
Around them, the students Hazel and Rudy were talking to were starting to listen in.
Alun nodded. “Yeah. He’s not the only one. We’re seeing a few solid names out there. There might be a few industrial unionites out there, too. This is our chance to show them what we’re made of!”
He climbed onto a table next to the door and cleared his throat. “Rudy, would you mind?”
Without missing a beat, Rudy turned about. Before he began, those closest to him pressed their hooves and talons to their ears.
“Oi, ye lot!” Rudy bellowed, his voice carrying well above the crowd, which quickly grew silent. “If ye don’t mind, we have an announcement!” Heads turned to Rudy, who then shifted to Alun after following the arm that pointed to him.
“Good morning, everyone!” Alun exclaimed, who received a loud wave of salutation in return. “Thank you for coming out today. We’re happy to have so many supporters this cold morning!” A cheery din returned as the crowd gave a general “you’re welcome.”
“Now, if you would please, we would like to begin today’s activities, which will require everyone to be outside with us. If you have a friend with you, please stick together! If not, find someone! We will be coordinating as…”
“...we are not cattle who graze upon these fertile fields of knowledge, but a united front of academics, destined to plow the prairies and share our fruits! We will not hoard, but we will share! We will not be chained — We will break through their shield wall, and hold their throne until they fall to our demands!”
There were 250 people — nearly a forth of the student population — cheering. 250 very rambunctious, energized, optimistic, and determined people. Flags, bisected with Confederate cobalt and a deep scarlet, fluttered in the wind. Signs of all kinds bobbed above heads, demanding justice, fair treatments and freedom for students.
This crowd all stared straight at him and Beatrice, who, in a fashion which could only be described at witchcraft, spread her arms, evoking hoots and hollers from the huge crowd.
Alun, trying to hide his nervous smirk, was checking the clipboard strapped to his arm. The pen in his mouth jotted down some notes about these numbers, creating small modifications to the formation the students would make at the center of campus.
But, butterflies tingled in his stomach, reminding him to stay vigilant. From the corner of his eye, he saw Rudy and his small band roaming the edges of the protest, looking externally for signs of trouble. The administration had their eyes on them, and the occasional glimmer from a campus constable’s steel jingasa made them wary.
Alun saw student eyes glaring at them from the windows of the other dorms. He couldn’t determine what the thoughts were behind those stares — Are they disdainful? Maybe they’re admiring us?
Rudy was as paranoid as he was strong, but at least he was mindful. His patrol was steady and tried to be as casual as possible during Beatrice’s speech. Luckily, she was articulate enough to keep their attention, which allowed Rudy’s patrol to do some scouting. Alun looked over Rudy’s notes again:
Clear to the center, but flanked by campus constabulary. Minimal choke points, with possible alternative routes. Whispers of more comrades, but can’t rely on rumors.
Alun nodded. Though still confident, this note still gave him pause. He looked over the determined strikers — They were strong in their conviction, and it was infectious.
But he couldn’t let himself be caught up in it. In the back of his mind, the newspapers he read about past strikes lurked like a predator. He wasn’t ignorant of their outcomes — The Railway Strike of 890 killed 400 workers. The Kordis Street Massacre killed 500. The Battle of Kaire Mountain killed more.
We don’t have spears and crossbows, just bodies! This feeling continued to hang around him, reminding him of the dangerous game he played. What’s worse is with every move, the rules can change.
A wave of applause pulled him from his thoughts, scrubbing them away with a whooping of cheers. Beatrice bowed, thanking the protesters for their attendance. She was beaming when she returned to Alun.
“Sounds like we’re going to have a very good day, comrade,” she announced, couching her megaphone under her arm. Her coat flipped gently in the autumn breeze, with the sun bathing her in an aura of total confidence. Alun shared her feelings, but after reminding himself of the strikes of the past, he forced himself to rein it in.
“I can share your confidence, Beatrice,” he replied, not completely lying, allowing himself a little smile. He looked ahead at the crowd, his ears burning as his nervousness did.
He cursed himself for not being so jovial, and his sudden change of mood. He thought he had this! The only thing positive he could consider was that he had so many people here to help support the cause.
Damn it, Beatrice, Alun admonished, his heart beating out of his chest. If we make the wrong move, we’re going to hurt people! He shook his head while he looked over his notes one last time. How is everyone suddenly so confident, and I’m not?
With another look at the crowd, he nodded at Beatrice. “I think we can start moving,” he said, despite his apprehension. “Rudy’s scouting helped immensely. We should be safe — relatively.”
Beatrice’s ears flattened briefly, but popped right back up. “Very good, vice marshal. We’re going to prove to the administration just how serious we are. Let’s get this moving!”
Alun took the stage and beckoned for the attention of the crowd. “Good morning, everyone — We have marked a suitable path for the crowd to follow, and if you would please join our security detail, they will lead you to the square! The marshal will be at the front, and I will be here in the back. Please stick together, and do be safe!” He looked across the crowd to see Beatrice moving to the front. He waved to her, and after a moment, she gave a wave back. “Okay, everyone! Let’s go! Good luck!”
The crowd bobbed and fluctuated like some gelatinous beast, and while it was once silent and attentive, became rowdy, chatty and loud. It looked like it could split with just how malformed it became as it moved into position. Somehow, it was able to continue just fine, and reformed into a rough, circular shape. As Alun had said, he placed himself at the back, next to Rudy. Hazel was closer to the front.
As they advanced, Rudy’s crew started passing around makeshift shields, made of whatever materials they could scrounge. They were all of a general design: Long, towering shields made of sturdy pieces of oak. They were all bisected in blue and red on their faces. The idea was to use those shields to not only protect the protesters, but to work in the second phase of the plan. Phase one — getting to the green — seemed to have been working.
Alun’s heart slammed against his chest, and it beat so hard that his whole body felt the pulse. It was electrifying to walk with such a huge contingent of people, and he wanted to be swallowed by the feeling. But with that electricity came the heightening of his senses, and his eyes darted like mad. His head craned to and fro, eager to call out what could be around the corner or in the next alleyway.
“Alun, relax,” Rudy said offhandedly, tightening his shield straps around his arm. He flexed the talon in the straps, impressed with the simple creation. “The administration wouldn’t dare try an’ do somethin’ fishy.”
Alun’s stomach grumbled. “Easy for you to say. They’re total minotaurs with how they act around us.”
“I wouldn’t call ‘em unpredictable, but I’d certainly call ‘em cautious. But — by the dearth of Tartarus, this is lighter than I thought! — they sure know how t’ rile us up with their arrests.” Rudy let out a light growl. “Of all the backstabbin’ they’ve done, they really like doin’ stuff rotten.”
“And I expect something rotten here.” Alun’s eyes skimmed the edges of the protest, to the buildings that laid to their flanks. “I’m no strategist, but I keep thinking they’re going to pop out of the alleys and break us up.”
Rudy nodded as he did the same, scanning the opposite side. “And ye’d be right t’ be concerned. But we’ve got folks posted to warn us just in case. So far, they’re lettin’ us go... within reason.”
“That’s the thing, Rudy. They’re letting us proceed. Don’t you think they’ll be waiting for us?”
Rudy was silent for a few moments, his response only briefly being his fingers drumming on the top edge of his shield. Chants then filled the silence, cadenced with synchronous drum beats. Alun silently thanked them, as they would be able to start speaking a little louder to each other.
“They are,” Rudy continued. “We know the campus constabulary is on the edge, but they wouldn’t dare attack the students.” He turned his head Alun, leaning over with a hushed tone. “Ye don’t think we coulda overlooked anythin’, do ye?”
“I wish I could say you shouldn’t worry, but I can’t help but think about all of the terrible outcomes of protests past.” Alun’s belly quivered unabated. “I don’t want this to happen to us.”
“Please, Alun,” Rudy quietly begged. “Ye think I’m no’ thinkin’ about that? I’m spekkin’ terrified of it!”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t help but think of it.” Alun briefly pressed a hoof to the side of his head. “Selka’s sword! I wish we armed ourselves…”
“We do ‘ave these,” Rudy said, motioning to his own ceremonial sword.
Alun’s fur stood on end, abhorred by the taboo. “You wouldn’t dare! We could get killed for pulling those out!”
“Would ye rather be killed by the axe of the court, or while defending yer friends on the picket line?” Rudy jutted his a thumb onto his chest. “I, fer one, would prefer me friends before the jury.”
Alun was silent as he processed Rudy’s confession., his mind ponderous. Did he want to run away? Or did he want to march along with him?
I signed up for this, he thought, looking at the advancing protesters. I mean, I want to be a good comrade, but I never considered risking my life until now.
“I didn’t know you felt so strongly about this, Rudy.”
“Yeah, neither did I.” Rudy adjusted his baldric while craning his head, giving another sweep of the perimeter. “But I guess I ‘ad a ‘ard think about it when Bryanne was arrested. Me pa was almost arrested at a strike, ye know — I didn’t know what t’ do then. I guess when it actually happens, it does somethin’ to ya.”
“Don’t do anything rash, today,” Alun pleaded. “Please.”
“I won’t do anythin’ ‘less they do somethin’ first.”
Alun’s ears flattened. That’s what I’m afraid of.
The two were silent, off to stew in their own thoughts. Alun didn’t want to dwell on the idea of being in a fight. He was just a skinny little zebra. He’d never been in or near a fight — and here he was, about to get in the thick of one! All the other zebs he knew were big, brawny sorts, able to pummel through just about anything. Why else were they Confederate cavalry, or accomplished steel workers?
He felt himself falling into a pit of self-doubt. He was going to talk to Rudy again, but he was stopped. The crowd’s chants coalesced into a coherent string of unified calls. Within the formation, baglama strumming formed stanzas, creating a song. The beating of a drum joined this jingle-jangle of string.
Their singing and chanting echoed off the buildings and rang through the campus. Occasionally, windows opened up to look at them. Some cheered at their advance, and sometimes little red fabrics waved in the high winds. Other open windows assaulted the crowd, either with a verbal lashing, or to pelt whatever they could at them, leading to retaliation from the crowd. Alun flinched at every squeaking open window, afraid for what the outcome would be. His heart raced, and encouraged the crowd to rush ahead, aided by Rudy and his crew.
They ended up at the campus green, a manicured, grassy place, lined with trees slowly losing their golden leaves. The main lecture halls hugged its borders, their imposing brick facades looming. The parade’s direction was to the center of the green: a large, carved stone platform that was a mirror of the terrace outside of Alun’s dormitory, but twice the size. Instead of a central fountain, there was a tall pillar that stood extravagant, bright and shiny like the great Spire that could be seen anywhere in the city. On top of it stood a bronze-cast likeness of Alana Razorwing, her fluttering cape frozen in time.
Across the way from the statue, in front of the administrative building, stood a solid formation of campus constabulary. Their only armor were their steel jingasas, which shined in fighting unison in defiance of the hodgepodge of students in front of them.
Up the steps behind them were the university’s heads: The chancellor, with an acoustic megaphone at her side, the provost and several deans were right in behind her. Her gold headfeathers twinkled as brightly as the jingasas in front of her. It was like staring right into a formation of soldiers.
All they needed now was a Confederate standard and a line of pikes, Alun thought.
The chancellor pulled the megaphone to her beak, and with a clear voice, cut through the din: “Students, please disperse. Your presence is unwarranted and disruptive to the campus. We do not appreciate your defiance.”
A cacophony of noise erupted, all varied ways to tell them no. Alun’s ears went hot when he heard some of the more colorful versions of their replies, stifling a giggle.
He allowed himself to be swept up by the chorus, despite his feelings. He smirked as he thought about it — It was a hell of a way to keep everyone’s morale up! It even attracted more people to the protest, causing him to lose count of the numbers. Soon, the whole group was yelling so loudly that it was hard for him to even think.
If this wasn’t a combined front, I don’t know what is, he mused, finally feeling more at ease. Even if we don’t succeed, I’m going to remember it for a long time.
This was phase one of the protest, and so far, it was going well. The protest was going to move from there and into the administration building, but it seemed like that was going to be a little more difficult than Alun imagined.
As their formation started to solidify around the statue, Rudy parted from the group and started to meet up with his comrades. Alun joined him, keeping an eye on the administration building. His heart pounded so hard that it made his vision bounce, and his breath was accelerated. He couldn’t believe that he was here right now. This whole protest took months to plan, and he was afraid it would fall apart in an instant. But so far… so good.
Everyone was staying in the designated area, but the constables were not. After a brief trumpet call, they slowly spreading their organized rectangle, growing from four ranks deep to two. The students matched to meet the push.
Alun had a small smirk as he nodded at the changing lines. “Solid plan getting your lads those formation books Rudy.”
“Woulda been better if we ‘ad some weapons.” Rudy shook his head with a sigh. “I mean, shite, we ‘ave some shields. We at least we got this goin’ on. But what th’ constables are doin’? That’s all they’ll prob’ly do. That’s what’s gonna protect us.”
Alun’s brow scrunched together. Are you serious, Rudy? The constabulary is willing to attack a worker, why not a student?
“Students!” The chancellor exclaimed. “This demonstration is entirely unnecessary. You will disperse, or else consequences will be incurred. We don’t want to affect your education, please understand!”
As she yelled that, the constabulary created a solid line established in front of the somewhat organized students, advancing two paces at a time. Rudy’s crew were ready, quickly forming at the sound of a shrill, tin whistle. They quickly coalesced at the front with a shieldwall, falling into formation from both sides of the student group. Their goal was to hold down the constables and to force a path through them to funnel students into the administration building to occupy it. With an occupation, they can force the university to acquiesce to their demands. It was the hope, anyway.
Flying over them would’ve been foolhardy, considering they’d be beaten and arrested as they landed one-by-one. Not to mention it would provoke the constables further than they already were. And this would allow the zebra to push through.
“It’s time fer a party!” Rudy shouted, checking his gear one last time. Alun’s whole body shivered, still not believing it was happening. “Wish me luck, Alun — I’ll see ye on the other side.”
“I —” He cleared his throat and steeled himself “— I’ll see you inside, Rudy. Best of luck.”
Rudy launched himself into the air with a mighty beat of his wings, and gracefully joined the shield wall, his boisterous, commanding voice clear among the shouts of the protest.
Alun’s heart went into overdrive, but he tried to power through it. Now he had to rush to the front with them and stand with Beatrice, and more importantly, with Hazel. He squeezed through the crowd, while his mind rushed through a flurry of emotions, all pulsing through at a million miles an hour. He was scared, but he was feeling bold, maybe even brave?
Another shiver sped through him. The shouting at the front was getting rowdier, and the exchanges were becoming fierce. The students’ colorful language always broke through the din, and he could barely hear the constables. But between each verbal bout, the heavy crack of shields-on-shields pierced the shouts, raising his blood pressure a few more beats. The closer he got to the line, the louder it was.
“Hazel!” He cried, pushing past another group of students. He could see her on the front edge of the protest, chanting with the best of them. He could see her beautiful, woolen shawl a thousand yards away and he’d still recognize it.
“Hazel!” He yelled again, finally getting closer. “Hazel! Do you hear me?”
She turned about to the last call, seeing him slide through another group of people. She reached down and gave him a nice, warm hug, instinctively pulling her shawl around his head. Almost immediately, Alun’s woes eased as he felt her against his body. Though his body surged with the racing heartbeat pumping through him, he was able to ignore it just by her presence alone.
“Alun,” she cooed. She completely shifted her attention to him, making Alun smile wide. “Are you okay? Everything alright?”
“Everything is fine,” Alun said. “All we need to do is break through the shields, and we’re home free. How is it up here?”
She hesitated to respond, only due to the fact that everyone around them was shouting their ears off. Hazel gave him a nervous smile, adding, “I think it’s quite enthusiastic up here — Beatrice just advanced, closer to the shield line. She wants to get closer to the action.”
He pulled back his neck, surprised. “Six above! We need to be up there with her. She’s going to need some support!”
Hazel placed a talon on the side of his neck, rubbing between it and the shoulder. “You need to calm her down,” she asked, putting a sight grip onto Alun’s neck. “I don’t know if it’s because of the mood of the crowd, but she’s getting… excited.”
Alun cocked his head while a scowl crawled across his brow. “I don’t like the sound of that. Let’s go.” Without hesitation, they ran to the front.
There was an incredible wave of voices that echoed through the whole square, which almost drowned out Alun’s thoughts. The protesters were unbelievably loud. He had never heard such a cacophony of noise in his life. Drums and baglamas played a barely organized symphony, student voices shouted with incredible power, and the thunderclaps of the shields nearly scrambled his brain with incredibly harsh shockwaves. But deep in the squall, Alun could hear Beatrice’s sharp voice.
It was not good.
“Break ‘em, lads!” She shouted. “Break ‘em hard and break ‘em fast!” As he approached her, a frenzy had taken her over. Her face was angry and passionate, almost stuck in a permanent scowl between yells of vitriol. Her feathers formed a grand plume, giving her a figure a fierce outline, akin to the gryphon warriors of the old republic.
Her chanting was infectious. People around her echoed, which was remarkable they could even hear above the noise. But the chant was spreading, slowly replacing the constructive chants from earlier.
The shields were so amazingly loud every time they came in for another push. Grunts and yells were intensified here at the front, and he could hear the protestors and the constabulary exchanging pithy insults. Suddenly, Alun’s entire coat stood on end.
“Beatrice!” He called out. She was distracted, focused on the melee. As he got closer to her, he could see a snapped piece of brick poking out between the gaps in her fist.
He knew her fiery speech would be too much. He didn’t think he’d ever think she’d consider violence, but here she was, ready to start a fight. His whole body boiled as he couldn’t keep from staring at the brick, disbelieving she’d be so willing to tip the whole strike for this one little flash of violence.
Alun moved closer, almost touching her. “Beatrice, what in the Six are you yelling about!”
“C’mon, Alun!” She barked. “It’s time to kick this strike into full steam!”
“Full steam? We’re already there! One more kick and we’ll break the engine!”
Her craze was not so easily broken. She looked like she was ready to start just about anything. “Look, Alun!” She pointed with the talon holding the brick. “Look! They’re so weak now, they just need the last little blow, and they’ll completely break!”
“What? No! No! You’re wrong!” His body tensed as the memories of the past flashed through his mind. “How do you even know that?”
Without hesitation, she threw the brick. The world seemed to slow as Alun’s eyes tracked its arc, flying unimpeded above the student shield wall and then straight into the unshielded face of a campus constable. His beak cracked and a line of blood streaked in the air as he fell in a fit of pain, his shield covering the outcome as he keeled over. The whole front of the line recoiled in a bestial shout of victory.
As the constable was being pulled away, more rocks and debris were thrown, pelting the constable line. “Break!” Was all they shouted now. “Break! Break! Break!”
Alun’s heart pounded as all of his fears manifested to the fore. Beatrice was unphased as she picked up another brick.
“You specking idiot!” Alun yelled. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing? You’re going to get someone hurt — no, killed!”
Beatrice was about to speak again but was interrupted by another trumpet call, a code of brassy thurps easy to hear over the agitated students. In unison, the constables reached across their baldrics and drew basket-hilted rattan batons, and advanced one step at a time, pushing back the student shield wall. The student wall intensified its fight, and pushed even harder. Rudy’s booming voice resonated across the line, telling them to keep strong. The tin whistle tweeted again, ordering the students to double their efforts. Joining the crack of shields was the disjointed whack of rattan. The students were losing.
Beatrice was dumbstruck, realization of a mistake plastered across her face. Alun, however, was furious, and took all he could to keep from pouncing on his friend. “Look at this, you fool! This is your fault! You got so pissy and now this is going to get worse!”
“We need to get inside the admin building!” Beatrice argued weakly. “We need to occupy it!”
Alun shook his head and easily pulled her acoustic megaphone from under her arm, sliding its leather strap over his head. “We can’t do that now, marshal. We’re not armed, and you decided to poke a dragon without a spear!” He turned to Hazel. “I need you to get Rudy to pull back and defend our comrades. We’re going to retreat back to the dormitories. Go, Hazel!”
“Be safe, Alun,” she said, tightening her shawl around her.
He furiously shooed her with a forehoof. “Don’t worry about me, go!”
As she skirted away, he ran back to the center dais where the column was, clambering over the railing to get above the crowd. Leaning against the marble, he cupped the megaphone between his forehooves and shouted. “Comrades!” He yelled as loud as he could. “Comrades, please listen! I am Vice Marshal Alun! The front has been compromised! We must make a retreat back to the dormitories!”
Before any reaction could happen from him, a sudden roar of anger echoed out from the front, taking his attention. A terrible yell echoed through his ears, in the midst of a terrible melee at the front. His eyes widened as he saw the sudden glint of steel emerge from a one of the students holding a shield. Alun froze, feeling as if the Six themselves grabbed him and forced him to stay. It was as if the entirety of the existence of light shone just for him to see the unsheathed saber twinkle with an unholy shine.
“...And, if you please, a can of pickled plum.” Tor hovered his talon over one of the many brands that stood on the shelf before him. He grabbed a cute, purple-packaged can and descended the wobbly stepladder he was on. Turning about, he placed down the objects of his customer’s desire onto the polished countertop one by one.
Tor put on his best smile. “Here you are —”
“No, no,” the customer, a dusty looking old crone said, who looked older than time itself. “I don’t want the Terka brand.” She pointed a wrinkled talon at a pink-labelled can that brightly announced Mirabelle’s Bells. “That one, mister Ceunant. That one!”
Tor did his best to not throw his back out with the deep groan that laid dormant deep in his belly. Instead, he slightly bowed towards the crone. “Apologies, madam, I’ll be sure to —”
“Miss, sir.” The crone corrected, her mouth creased hard with a frown. “I am a miss.”
In the depths of his brain, Tor’s emotions boiled like an overheated teapot, begging to blow steam. But like any good gentletiercel, he refrained from launching himself over the counter and strangle her into an early grave. He simply nodded, taking the error in stride.
“Of course” — a pause — “miss.” Curt, refrained.
There’s a good lad.
He turned back to the stepladder and ascended, taking the Terka canned plums with him. While he exchanged the cans, he looked quickly at his wristwatch, which ticked oh-so slowly towards the magical time of 8 PM. He could feel the tension in his body slowly unwind while he returned to the old madam — Miss, lad, miss! — at the counter.
The eagless was more satisfied this time around, inspecting the can gleefully after adjusting her dusty glasses. The magnified eyes behind them looked out of place, making her look more like a goldfish than an eagless.
“Ah, Mirabelle!" She beamed, being drawn back to long distant memories. "Six above, how I love this brand. Did you know my cousin used to pick the plums for these? It’s true, you know!”
Tor knew in his heart of hearts that this old eagless needed someone to talk to. After all, as she had mentioned the last time she visited, she didn’t have many other friends in her life anymore. Though, as saddening as that fact was, the more important point was that he had been working at the shop for more than ten hours, and he was unhappy with the fact he was coming up on hour eleven.
The eagless cut short for a split second, a perfect time to interject. “A fascinating story, mad — miss. Is that all that you need today?”
The crone stopped, putting a curious finger to the underside of her beak. She vocalized an elongated hmm as her big eyes scanned the store’s inventory for the fifth time. To Tor’s relief, she simply asked for the bill.
The final exchange was painless. Worn coins dropped into his palm with a loving clink, and the old crone was satisfied. She stuffed her purchase into an old canvas bag and nodded.
“Thank you, mister Ceunant.” Her eyes closed in satisfaction. “You have been very helpful today.”
Tor smiled slightly, showing an honest, final bit of gratitude to her. “I aim to serve, miss. I’m sure to help you however I can.”
He wasn’t spiteful towards the old hag, though his patience had worn thin. It wasn't entirely her fault, though — After the factories closed for the afternoon shift, the grocer became a madhouse. There was always a terrible rush of people with an equally terrible level of demand. It happened every day, and it rubbed him raw. That rawness lasted for the rest of the day.
It’s as bad as a mino sliding its spatha into your groin.
An exaggeration, yes. But a reasonable comparison.
“Thank you very much, mister Ceunant.” She waved as she opened the front door, it’s brass bell ringing gently against the meandering din of the street. “Merry meet again!”
Tor waved back, weak like the smile on his face. “Merry meet again.”
As the door closed, he bent over the counter and heaved a great sigh. He allowed a slight respite on the polished wood, giving a thankful prayer that the ordeal was over. After hours of talking and negotiating, a break was a godsend no matter how long it was. This job was relatively easy. It wasn’t digging drainage ditches or hefting corpses onto a cart, but — Six above, why is this so toiling?
He couldn’t explain nor understand it. His mind jumped about as he flipped the open sign on the door to Closed. While he pulled the blinds down over the window, he went over his duties — Sweep the floor, buff the counter, count the till… This is fledgling’s play.
And yet, he couldn't explain his feelings. Months ago, he'd jump at the opportunity for an easier lifestyle, away from politicking and negotiating. To no longer being under scrutiny from every newspaper and rumor mill should have relieved him, but the endless meandering of his job gave him no satisfaction.
He was amused when he was told his duties from his employer, Garrick Bloodstone. It was so trivial, so benign. Yet… It was like pushing a boulder up a mountain. All of these duties on top of his regular, social responsibilities to help and serve those who come into the grocer.
It felt so hollow.
These feelings lingered as he went through the end-of-day motions until he removed his bleached white apron, gently sliding it onto a peg nearest the till. As it slipped off his fingers, he felt a great weight lift from his shoulders. His body relaxed, feeling as if he was able to stand straight for the first time in a thousand years. He stretched his back, letting out a moan of relief. His wings unfurled, shooting a loving, electrical warmth throughout his being.
“Praise the Six,” he muttered to himself afterwords, pulling on his warm greatcoat. After he slipped his arms through, a thread had caught itself on a talon, no doubt loosening some part of the garment. He had little patience for such damage and plucked the snag out — He gently chastised himself for being so rough with a coat. He would never do that with any of his silk garments, no matter how worn they were.
A stray, unhappy string wiggled itself loose in his mind, but he shook his head. Rovena said there’s no room for such thoughts, he reminded himself. That was then. This is now.
“Ceun,” he heard behind him. Tor’s ears jutted flat as the squeaky, nasally voice of his employer echoed in the store. With a momentary scowl, he turned to the voice with a tempered, thin smile. He detested — no, hated — the fact that Bloodstone wouldn’t refer to him with the title of mister. It was just a fact that these types of people, conscious of it or not, preferred using these titles with people they preferred to be around. Namely, patrons and equals, for which Tor was neither.
“Mister Bloodstone,” Tor simply replied, with the practiced, diplomatic cadence that he had used on people more powerful than Bloodstone ever would be. “What can I do for you?”
As he spoke, he dropped to all fours, coming down to eye-level with his boss.
The portly little gryph stood at a corner of the U-shaped counter, wiping his talons on the underside of his apron. As he approached, he adjusted the round spectacles balancing on his thick beak.
“I need to discuss your attitude when it comes to our patrons, Ceun.” Bloodstone walked up to him with a fatherly look, which pitifully disguised the patronizing gaze under it. “I was not happy about how you treated Miss Satie.”
Tor held back a growl, opting to continue his controlled tone. Patience, lad. “I don’t understand, mister Bloodstone” — He gestured as best as he could with a talon — “Was I not as accommodating as I could be? Surely you can understand any frustration that might’ve seeped through.”
“I know she can be a sore on the rump, Ceun,” Bloodstone reasoned, patting the air with an open talon. “But the fact of the matter is that she needs to be respected. You need to be more amicable with our patrons!”
Bloodstone leaned onto the counter casually, as if trying to make Tor drop his guard.
Anadolu’s gaze, he’s a slimy little one, Tor mused. Next he’ll put his talon under mine and ask me to dance.
“I understand that you may still be on edge since you’ve come back from the frontier,” Bloodstone continued. “I was out there once, I completely understand.”
Tor held back a throaty chuckle, simply replying with a gravelly, “Mmmh.”
“But, these matters are far more delicate than a patrol on the Plains of Hecktor. You must understand that these people are not here to be swept under the rug, but to be accommodated and respected. Do you know what I’m saying, lad?”
“Aye, mister Bloodstone,” Tor agreed. “I’ll do my best to have more of a cordial attitude next time we cross paths.”
“Not just Miss Satie.”
Tor nodded. “With everyone.”
Blackstone patted Tor’s upper arm with a wide smile, as if he just saw a puppy jump through a hoop. “Aye, there’s a good lad. I just wanted to keep you in the know. Now, I’m going to finish up here, so you can head home. I’ve got a few things to finalize. Just snag the light on the way out, would you, Ceun?”
“Aye, mister Blackstone. I’ll see you on Monday.”
The little tiercel nodded and hobbled back out of the main store with a slight limp in his left leg. He gazed at Tor with disappointment before he walked behind the shelves, grumbling to himself.
With a sigh, Tor slid on the hat that sat next to where his coat was. It was a good fiddler’s hat, which matched his greatcoat in its blue color. It wasn’t frayed, quite the contrary. Fitted and made just for his head, made from a portion of his first paycheck. It wasn’t anything special, really. Just simple wool, leather… but there was something important about it. His labor paid for this hat, which was made just for him.
He chuckled to himself as he locked up, squeezing the gaslight shut. It was a hat, for the Six’s sake. He smoothed the top out, looking satisfied. Still, it's my hat.
Closing the door behind him, he looked down the street. From under the awning of the grocer, the world glowed amber on a background of midnight. Traffic was slower tonight, but still bustling as bystanders and zebra-drawn carts meandered through the street.
Idly, the conversation with Bloodstone echoed in Tor’s head, endlessly replaying. He was growing tired of the little gryph’s grating voice, his patronizing tone. He analyzed the way he addressed him every day, and had difficulty reeling back the mental labor — He knew he would probably collapse were he to dedicate more energy to it.
What’s past is past, he reminded himself. It didn’t help much, but it was an attempt.
It was a gentle evening on the second tier, which was less ostentatious than what he was used to. Its buildings were almost all made of red brick, and tightly packed together. The facades glowed under the gaslight, as did the amber leaves that remained on the naked trees that lined the cobblestone street. The cold air brushed by him, pulling leaves past. He wanted to enjoy it, hoping to leave the day behind him.
Tor took a turn down the avenue, flipping up the collar on his coat and then fell back onto all fours. The cold stone causeway wreaked havoc on his cold talons, intensifying the pain that came with the lack of use holding up a grown tiercel’s body. He groaned and cursed quietly every few steps. It wasn’t as bad as it used to be, all things considered — When he first started, it was hard to even keep himself up for an extended period of time and it still was. But it got easier. It usually does.
His gait changed as well, but was lopsided. It over-compensated for the lack of a heavier weapon on his side, and he missed the weight of his old saber. It was nothing compared to its replacement dirk. It was kept tight against his body, and its silverine, knob crossguard looked pathetic next to the basket hilt from his original weapon. Still, it had the sharpness of a razor, but swung like holding a twig.
And of course I’ve used it, he thought, smiling. He had long discarded the taboo, no longer afraid of the cultural repercussions. He was a damn fine swordsgryph, too. Nothing more satisfying than repelling a thug with a weapon three times the length of his own — He learned too quickly that the lower tiers were more dangerous than where he came from. He was thankful for his own physical abilities. His financial capacity, however… he shivered at the thought.
It was a terrifying disadvantage being a former noble. His administrative abilities were not readily sought after for a person starting on the bottom rung, nor were many other of the gentle skills. Clerical positions were few and far between, and finding a job with a higher profile only risked him being recognized by the public at large. At least down here on the second tier, there was less of a chance of discovery. He felt he would’ve preferred a factory job, though he had heard terrible, hellish stories about them. Rovena had suggested he steer clear, despite her favorable leanings of the local unions.
A chill ran down his body as he turned the corner, reminding him of the chilly autumn weather and shaking him from his thoughts. The wind howled down the alley, forcing him to hold his hat tight as he crossed an arched iron bridge across the Gaspar river. The gale rustled loose garments on everyone on the bridge, and nearly pushed Tor to the ground. He cursed the wind under his breath, tempted to hold a fist to it were it not to cause his hat to fly away. Instead, like many other things he had to endure in his exile, he pushed through it.
He escaped the howl as he turned a corner across the bridge. The whistle of the wind was quickly replaced with the laughter and shouting of jovial patrons. Idle fingering of baglama echoed between the clinking of glass. A grin tugged at the edges of Tor’s mouth, tempting him into the Red Chain, his new standby at the end of the street.
Fortunately, the want for a drink wasn’t as strong as it normally was after a long day at work. He opted to go straight home, badly needing the smell of home around him.
He smirked idly at the thought. Home. It felt nebulous to him. The only one he really had was Rovena’s little house, which didn't feel right. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was an intruder, no matter her insistence otherwise.
Perish the thought, Tor, he recalled her saying, sitting next to him after his first week at Bloodstone’s grocer. You're always welcome here. I pray that you claim it as not just your home, but your citadel, your base.
I want to, he lamented. But the fire, the sounds, the smells aren’t the same. He sighed again, the steam from his breath now heavier. No, lad. It’s something. Quit being so ungrateful!
He halted both his body and his thoughts, scowling at the ground. It was becoming easier to admonish himself with each passing day. Something in him hatched to grow these feelings, and it was hard to fight them back.
With a sigh, he pushed onward, trying to ignore it.
While passing the Chain, a gaggle of gryphs emerged, laughing out the pocket door. They shouted their goodbyes to the interior, who returned them with a joyful intensity. Tor recognized a few of them, who were all large metalworkers. They looked happy and satisfied from the outside, with their smiles and hollers. But of all the times Tor saw them, there was a twinkle in their eyes — Not malice, but ambition. They had a course to follow, one that they carved themselves.
Tor envied them. To him, his days were endless, unfocused affairs, which drifted from one day to the next.
What am I going to do? He frequently asked himself. Where is my end? Where is my path? He couldn’t help but wonder if the rest of his days would be spent being subservient to some forgettable gryph who owned a street grocer.
Back on the mountain, he had a goal, some sort of path. Every month a challenge came, diplomatically, socially. Though the path was still without an end goal, there was purpose within each milestone. He had hoped to eventually find himself a governorship, or even consulship.
But now? Six only know, he conceded.
A particular gryphon emerged from the Red Chain, a strong looking eagless. She was wide in the barrel, and practically bulged from under her coat. She looked like she could hold the gryphs around her in her arms. He recognized her when he sat at the bar, a prominent member of the local Metal Shaper’s Union chapter.
Six above, Tor thought with envy. Now that’s a gryph with purpose!
As he passed them, the eagless noticed him and nodded with a knowing smirk. Tor’s feathers stood on end, struck with static. But, playing as cool as he could, he simply smirked back, giving a curt bow. He had to play the part of subservient, after all — Couldn’t be showing his talon to anyone.
That would be dangerous, he thought, feeling his gut tightening.
He wasn’t sure if they would ever exchange pleasantries, but for now, it was a mystery to be solved another day. In a hurry, he scuttled down the pavement, his sore talons slapping the wet stone with a quick pace. He pulled the hat further over his eyes as he did, doing his best to obscure himself in the harsher shadows of the gaslight. He would be safe back on Simpronia Lane.
There was another reason why he cherished his hat so much. It was so much easier to hide his face. One of his greatest weaknesses, and perhaps the only chink in his armor. One false move, and, in a flash, gone. No one had recognized him yet, perhaps due to the slight disfiguration of his face since the assassination attempt, but he still didn’t want to take a chance.
He stopped at a lamppost at the head of the lane. He stood back up on his rear paws, eliciting a groan of relief. He hated being in such a compromising position with anyone, enemy or otherwise. There was hardly ease of access to his blade or a martial stance. Just the act of pushing the front half of his body against gravity was enough to kill someone — In the split second of going upright, an assailant could have their talons around the neck, or a blade between the ribs! And to have that same feeling when talking to someone who had a shinier weapon than you…
His jaw tensed. Dear ancestor Alana, if you can hear my thoughts from Sarmma — I hope you know that you’ve damned us for such an abhorrent practice! Tor took a deep breath and held it for a few minutes. He counted: One, two, one, two...
He couldn’t walk into the house angry. It would upset Rovena. Then he would have to talk about his feelings and it just wasn’t worth the time spent being unhappy when he could simply sit down for once. A day’s toil, he once thought, shouldn’t be burdened with more toil.
In the back of his mind, he had a feeling that this wasn’t something he should be comfortable with. But he allowed it to fester like the rot it was. What was one more day submerged in a lukewarm pool of his thoughts? Tomorrow was the first day of the weekend. Maybe then he could relax. Maybe he could talk.
He dug into his breast pocket and retrieved the spare key to Rovena’s hovel. It was a quaint little thing, a dull brass. It was worn a little already, but it started earning its scars with Tor’s use. He slid the key into the lock and took a moment to unlock it. The lock always was a little stuck, and Tor always forgot that he needed to lift the door just a tad for the bolt to slide back. So, with a little effort, he put his other talon on the handle, and lifted.
Click!
Tor smiled. Just one more step, and it was back home.
Six, help me, he thought again. Maybe the word will stick after all.
The door opened easier than the lock did. As soon as he did, he took a deep breath. The scent of sandalwood embraced his senses, causing his ears to twitch slightly as he pulled his hat off. As he walked in, he saw Rovena near the back of the hovel, enacting a small ritual before a miniature shrine. She was on her knees in prayer, but broke it to look over her shoulder, smiling softly at Tor. Tor smiled back, feeling his nerves squibble in his guts. He was always happy to see her, giving him solace after long day at work. Tor was sure that were she not here to help him, he would've been worse off than where his was now.
She's a lot stronger than I am, he thought. A saint lives in her.
She patted the rug next to her. Tor accepted the invitation after hanging his coat near the door. He sat on his haunches, and was surprised by the aches and pains suddenly introducing themselves to him. Rovena steadied him with a firm talon on the shoulder, straightening the tiercel.
“Steady there, lad?” She poked, sporting a playful smirk.
Tor could feel some of his ache ease away as he chuckled weakly, nodding at her question. He took another deep breath, taking in more of the incense at the altar. It was like being wrapped in a blanket.
“Steady enough, I think,” he replied.
Rovena, still smirking, faced the shrine and resumed her prayer. Tor, lit a separate incense stick and placed it into an open hole of a floral porcelain burner sitting in the shrine. He clapped twice, customary to evoke the Six, and fell silent. He didn’t say a word, but he thought many.
Please, was the word he prayed the most, his mind clouded with his unhappy thoughts. Please, please, please… He begged for a feeling deep in his body. He couldn’t put it into words what he pleaded for, but all he could think of was a restless compass. It never told him what direction he was going, or where he could go next. He thought he knew, but — he stopped in his tracks.
It was indescribable. Even holding the damn thing upside down, it wouldn’t point the right way. The needle spun and spun, it refusing to hold a position. He was afraid he might’ve broken it, or perhaps someone slipped a magnet into his pocket? He ruefully shook his head, defeated.
His mother gifted it to him, which reminded him of their time hunting on the old Razorwing estate. Under his palm, he could feel the etched words of luck on the inverse side, but they've cursed him. He knew it worked — Kot’s sake, it was made literally last year!
He shook it hard, hoping the force would straighten the needle. Despite his best efforts, it kept going.
“That’s it, Gaius,” he said. He dropped his arms after checking the map in his other talon. “Sergeant’s going to have to send a search party for us. I knew going here was a bad idea.”
Gaius Stormbeak shook his head, undeterred. “You’re giving up too soon, Tor,” he chided, putting his talons onto his hips. He trotted up to his partner, who looked fresher than a peach during the harvest. “I thought you Razorwings weren’t whiny gits — Why am I stuck with the only one?”
“But it doesn’t make sense.” He flashed the compass face at Gaius, who only looked at him with a crooked, disbelieving face of incredulity. “Why would they send us to a place where a compass wouldn’t work? We could die out here!” Tor felt his feathers begin to fluff as his anxiety spiked. It was as if the cold forest around them taunted him, telling him of his fate with a sick smile.
He then scowled at his partner with realization. “And I’m not whining! I’m pointing out a fact, and the fact of the matter is that we’ve been given absolute shite intel.”
Gaius held up a stern finger at Tor, scowling. “Wrong!”
He bounced it off of Tor’s beak. Tor squeaked and rubbed where he was struck.
“We’ve been dealt a shite talon, not shite intel,” Gaius continued. “After Sergeant Sextus told us that we’d be encountering some harder terrain, she wasn’t lying. She said it would be difficult, not impossible. We were literally in class a few days ago discussing the ins and outs of these magic-warp anomalies, you deaf cow.” He gestured at the forest valley, which was draped in a blanket of thick, virgin snow. “This isn’t difficult. It’s just we need to find a better way to navigate.”
“Well… how do we navigate around anomalies? If they’re messing with my compass, then —”
“I don’t know, Razorwing,” Gaius interrupted, exasperated. He pinched the bridge of his beak. “You’re the one who has to do this, I’m the one still nursing a specking hangover.”
Tor sighed, shaking his head. But he smiled anyway, closing his talon around the compass, pressing tight until it clicked shut.
His eyes squeezed a little harder shut, where he tried to keep himself from giggling any harder.
“I understand asking the Six for a bit of their attention, but laughing at them is a less-than-orthodox way to evoke them,” Rovena commented. “But, who knows? It might work a little better.”
Tor opened his eyes to Rovena’s smirk again. He was happy she’d quickly grown comfortable with him. She far warmer compared to the meek little eagless whom he first met in the summer. Though he had caught a glimpse of it while she visited his apartment, it was far more pronounced since they became housemates. Her sarcasm, though — that was unexpected.
She was still prone her shyness in public. She had a small number of places she was truly able to express herself, and were she struck with a particularly hard bout of anxiety, she would lock up. She always gave him a little assurance, however. It apparently used to be a lot worse.
“Oh, aye,” Tor agreed, nodding. “Thought they’d be receptive to something a little more noticeable than a muttering prayer.” He dropped his talons and sat like a cat. Rovena mirrored him, though she was at least a head shorter than his admittedly towering figure. It was like a bear next to a pony, a silly juxtaposition.
“What were you laughing about just then?” She asked.
Tor shrugged, his smile weakening. “It wasn’t anything terribly important. Something from back when I was in the service.”
Rovena cocked her head, aware of something that Tor didn’t notice. “You've talked about the service a lot since you’ve been here.” She flipped a talon up. “We did this here” — She dropped that talon and then raised the other — “We did that there. Where didn’t you do things?” Her eyes twinkled, smiling for her. “I know it’s hard to adjust, Tor. But it’s easy to be lost in the past.”
Rovena’s gaze wasn’t accusatory or belittling, but glowed in a way that showed an innate understanding that Tor didn’t think anyone would know. It was a feeling that only a few people in the world shared, and luckily, he was with someone who experienced everything he was going through.
Tor sighed, and hung his head. It was a lesson that he had learned before. “I’m allowed to remember, aren’t I?”
“Of course you are!”
“Then allow me this one,” Tor said. He adjusted himself and sat on his rump, then put his back against her loveseat. The pressure on his back felt so much better than standing up.
He shrugged. “It’s just that I’m looking back for some guidance. I’m not sure about anything right now. This job, this situation — Six, this life. It’s without purpose.”
Rovena gracefully stood with hardly a sound, moving to a chair across from Tor. “It’s a strange life.” She nodded with a sad smile. “We were lucky to have had our paths laid out long ago. We knew where the road ended. But down here?” She blew out her cheeks. “It’s like flying through a thunderstorm.”
“Like it or not, we’re plebs now,” Tor reminded her, humored by the irony that he did. She knew just as well as he did, and and embraced it thoroughly. Though, his stomach tensed as he said it. There were times that he could’ve sworn he was in a crazy dream.
Rovena left the seat and walked to the small kitchen near the door. “Was that all you were thinking about? An old memory?”
He smiled at the thought. “It was about how piss-poor of a navigator I was.” A pause: “Am.”
“I’m surprised you got home — If it wasn’t your terrible sense of direction that’d kill you, then I was sure it’d be the weather to do you in!” They both shared a giggle as she clicked on the stove’s starter, putting a delicate little kettle onto the flame. “Tea?”
Tor nodded. “Of course.”
Home. He thought more about it. If I have that, maybe I'll find more to all this.
