Honestly, she was surprised she could even stand.
More than that, she was still a bit surprised that death hadn’t come, prepared to take her to whatever hell awaited her. It seemed that she had cheated the system a bit too much by this point. Something had to give eventually.
Maybe it was waiting, biding its time until the dragoness felt safe, secure. Such instances had happened before; faded memories of hollow nights spent scared and alone in a pit of despair; a hopeless nightmare she couldn’t escape from.
More so than that, perhaps the simple fact of the matter was that she wasn’t ready to die yet. Even in her young life the dragoness had seen more than enough, far more than enough.
Even in the darkest of hours, nothing had been able to keep the weasel of self-preservation from giving her a slim escape route in the way of a quick blow to the throat, a slash of claws to sever tendons in a knee, or the barest of opportunities to blow poison into an opponent's lungs.
There was always a way out. No exceptions.
Smirking a bit, Cynder added as an afterthought. “Seems that streak isn’t ending anytime soon.” Her inner tirade was prematurely clipped, a sharp glint of tension running down her side. Grunting and clenching a talon over the afflicted area with a sharp growl, Cynder felt a spark of billowing shadows escape her clinched muzzle.
Adjusting her posture slightly, the dragoness closed her eyes for a bit, letting the accumulated shadows disappear into the dimly lit room. Ivory claws scraping wood lightly, Cynder carefully rolled onto her belly. Ignoring the sharp protests her body made at the straining of ripped muscles and tendons, she forced her belly right.
The constant inaction made her shudder. A nervous energy being ever present in her actions, Cynder tapped her claws fervently. If the antsy dragoness’s wings hadn’t been wrapped and secured so tightly, she would have stretched them hard enough to crack bones. As it was, she was grounded.
Weakness still permeated every inch of her scaled body, a shuddering temple in each muscle that made her teeth itch. Each day permitted the same rhythm to greet her.
Wake up, eat a hot soup that, while tasty, had become so bland it nearly made her puke. Following that struggle, the overeager dragoness was forced to endure a near daily scolding as a result of a constant desire to stretch her aching limbs.
Same old, same old. New injuries, same tired recovery process.
Ignoring the faint creaking of her bones, Cynder pushed each weakened limb against the hardwood floor. Breathing steadily for the first time in what felt like months, the black dragon gave a toothy smirk with creased brows.
Shakily raising a fabric-coated forearm, she was able to take one of her first full steps in several days. Grunting against the slight bite that entered her tired, battered muscles, Cynder pushed forward. Easing her way over to the closed door at the side of the room, the beaten dragon slid her talons around the handle.
Before she could even tug, the door was pulled open from the opposite side. It took tremendous effort on Cynder’s part to not barrel over the person on the other side. Instead, the dragoness leaned back hard away from the swinging block of oak.
A startled squawk penetrated the air from the other side, the noise moving in tandem with the dull thud of wood smacking against scale. Cynder, for her part, was mostly silent. Losing her footing momentarily, the oversized reptile flopped against the ground hard, grunting in discomfort.
She missed the strange crackle in her senseless wings.
White feathers dipped around the door, followed by a short yellow beak and a face of the same feathered coloration. The griffin’s large golden eyes found the dragon’s jade ones easily. Those eyes narrowed for the slightest of moments.
With a sigh, the other female carefully shut the door behind her. A tense silence followed. Something twitched in Cynder’s muscles, the familiar anxious buzzing in her brain. The griffin's beak was drawn tight, gold eyes staring her down.
The moment broke when the hen closed her eyes and shook her head. Cynder flinched, drawing her tail around defensively. Her opposite paid the blade a quick glance, the dragoness catching the carefully hidden break in posture.
“You ripped your bandages.” The griffin stated simply, in a bored tone of voice.
Cynder blinked. That… wasn’t quite what she had been expecting. Raising a scaly brow, the dragon regarded her torn fabrics with a snort. Pushing a set of aching limbs under her, Cynder got back to her feet. The hen regarded her with an unimpressed look.
Standing shakily, Cynder eyed the other female with an equally unamused glance. Staring her straight in the eye, Cynder raised a paw. Without hesitation she slashed down one of her bandaged sides. Vision never straining, the fabrics fell from the black-scaled dragoness’s body.
A tense moment followed, the griffin’s brow rose steadily. The moment quickly passed. Snorting in laughter once, the hen hid her beak behind a hard talon. Continuing to snicker, the avian turned around, setting something she had been holding across her wings to the floor.
Cynder’s curious gaze followed the movement, leaning her head to the side with an inquiring grunt. Still silently mirthing at her opposite, the griffin turned back around and trotted over to the dragoness.
“Ballsy,” she said. “I like that. Name’s Gilda.” It just occurred to the dragoness that Gilda lacked the same throaty accent her mother had. There was a certain harshness lying behind her words, something most wouldn’t have picked up on. Cynder knew her type: slightly narcissistic.
“C-Cynder.” The word hurt to say, a feeling reminiscent of sandpaper being smeared across her esophagus. Gilda, to her credit, hid the grimace at the dragoness’s hoarse, gravelly timbre. Cynder caught the look easily, and felt a frown form on her muzzle. That hurt.
The griffin lifted a claw into the air, holding it outward. Her movement looked forced. Cynder could tell that the griffin wasn’t scared of her, but there was some nervous energy in the avian’s body language.
A slight twitch in her feathers across restrained wings. The most subtle of movements in her legs. She was nervous, though she wasn’t scared. The former child-soldier wasn’t quite sure what to make of that.
Also, what in the name of the Ancestors was she doing? Jade eyes peered at the extended claw with a mix of curiosity and barely concealed suspicion. Gilda seemed to catch on to the dragoness’s confusion. Coughing once awkwardly, the griffin dropped her claw.
“Uh… nevermind.” Scratching at her beak idly, Gilda looked like she had something else to say but chose against it. Casting her eyes anywhere but the piercing jade ones staring at her intently, the griffin looked a bit anxious, an odd break from the established behaviour.
Cynder realized, with a start, that her own body language was being quite hostile. Claws bared hard against the floor; tail tightly wrapped around her side. Her wings… well, they didn’t react at all. That thought came to the forefront of her mind quickly, superseding all other thoughts.
Whipping her head back fast enough to make bones along the vertebrae crack ominously, Cynder stared at her tattered and scattered wings. For the most part, the phalanges were heavily covered in gauze. The particularly sensitive regions of the carpus were so heavily pressed and set that she couldn’t see or feel the blade at the end.
Her eyes roamed over the splint holding two of her phalanges in place on one wing, and all of them on the other. Gasping weakly as she inspected the damage, Cynder’s mind whirled. Her time in corruption and enslavement had made her particularly acute to dragon anatomy. One constant thing stood out among those horrible years: dragons who had severe breaks in their wings remained grounded for the rest of their lives.
With horrified mirth, a particularly twisted part of her mind laughed. All those interrogations, all the torture, seemed it had come full circle and grounded her. In her disturbed trance, she failed to notice Gilda slowly and earnestly walking over to her.
Cynder flinched violently, snapping her head back to meet the eyes of the griffin. Breath coming in increasingly short bursts, Cynder attempted to fight back the terror beating at the door. Gilda’s expression had morphed.
It still had the same chilly coolness resonating from early: a half-lidded look that spoke of an indifference to many things; however, the ice had thawed substantially.
“They may still work, my mom said they may have a chance of being able to regain function if you train with them.” Cynder was skeptical at best, and she didn’t hesitate to vocalize with a gruff grunt. She wanted to hope, but the black dragoness knew better than most that life was far from fair, and there was no use in false hope.
Speaking of which, Cynder was feeling more than a little achy at this point. The thick wrap of bandages and gauze around most of her black scales told her in no hidden terms that many bits of body were not quite aligned.
“What… else?” It hurt to force the words out, but she needed to know. Gilda looked a bit confused for a second, but as Cynder gestured to her nearly mummified form, her meaning became quite clear. Nodding once with a noise of affirmation, the griffin quickly left the room.
Her absence was short-lived as she quickly returned with a small piece of parchment in a talon.
“I don’t know if draconic runes are anything like ours.” She handed over the paper to her opposite. “If you can’t read --” Gilda was cut off by a dismissive wave of a paw.
The runes weren’t standard draconic, that’s for sure. What was strange was that they were written nearly identical to those used by apes. Cynder, unsurprisingly, knew the language well.
As her eyes scanned the paper, apprehension grew in her gut. A long list of injuries, most severe, dotted the length of the parchment. In between each diagnosis was a sentence describing treatments and recoveries from each. They did not sound pleasant.
“By the ancestors… how am I even alive?” Broken left Femur, both arm Ulnases shattered, bruised Ilium and Scapula, twisted and sprained wing joints, substantial damage and breakage to Wing Phalanges on both wings, broken Carpus and sprained Metacarpus, and the list went on and on.
Cynder very quickly became aware of the aches and pains across her form. The casts and gauze suddenly seemed much tighter. Gulping hard, the black dragoness shakily handed the parchment back to Gilda, who was giving her a grimacing frown.
“Gotta say though, hell of a recovery you’ve made so far.” A somewhat dark look settled over her features. “I’m glad.” Gilda’s beak twitched, causing Cynder to narrow her eyes.
The dragoness didn’t press her suspicion, deciding to take one of the lessons from that nightmare she caused in the dungeons. Instead, an awkward silence followed for a moment.
Cynder, hoping to prompt an answer, flashed her eyes red for the slightest of moments. The manipulative probe did it’s work, worming its way into Gilda’s mind, furthering the anxiety building within the hen’s stomach.
She couldn’t hide the devious smirk that flashed across her scarred muzzle as the anxious, twitching Gilda began to exhibit. That’s what made her tick huh? Higher the pride, longer the fall.
“What...what’s the problem?” Cynder probed, watching as the griffin’s eye twitched rapidly. Gilda averted her eyes, blushing madly,
“N-nothing, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Gilda’s version of a poker face wasn’t exactly doing wonders on the perceptive dragon, only egging on her curiosity even more.
“Come on… spill it already.” The scratchy, raspy voice made the griffin wince slightly, and resulted in yet another poorly conceived denial about the nature of her immense blush and stuttering voice.
“Cut the interrogation, dragon.” Gilda’s voice took on a note of unconvincing hostility, one which Cynder saw right through. Grinning slightly, Cynder took the opportunity to poke a little bit at the stubborn hen.
“Fine, fine, I’ll back off, just humor me this. Solve a problem for me.” While her posture remained guarded and defensive, Gilda’s voice lost some of it’s edge. Lowering her feathered head to the ground a bit, Gilda peeked under her eyebrows at the grinning dragon.
“What kind of problem, exactly?” Cynder’s claws clicked on the wooden floors in barely contained excitement. The griffin couldn’t help but feel like indulging this particular side of new found acquaintance was a dangerous and flammable idea.
“A riddle, one that I myself can’t seem to answer. Or can I?” Cynder’s raspy voice lowly growled out in mirth, watching in innocent amusement as the griffin rolled her eyes.
“Why am I even surprised a dragon would like riddles.” Gilda grumbled and sat back, eyes half lidded.
“If you can’t answer correctly, you tell me all that’s rolling around in that head of yours.” Cynder cut her statement early, already expecting Gilda’s follow up question.
“And if I win?”
“I’ll drop the topic completely. Never bring it up again.” Gilda gave the dragon a long hard stare. Sensing some kind of deception in those piercingly sharp jade irises did little to quell the competitive spirit clawing around within the griffin.
“Alright, hit me.”
Cynder grinned harder.
“I can fly yet have no wings. I beat down mountains, I conquer kings. At once three different things am I, as a continuous whole, I cannot die.”
Silence followed the cryptic riddle. Gilda was stone still, mind whirling around in her head. Cynder from her own vantage was now surprisingly devoid of mirth, sitting stoic across from the multicolored avian, genuinely curious if her on the spot riddle would be solved.
Over the next few seconds Gilda’s expression remained unchanged, her eyes glazed over as she collapsed deep in thought. The ticking of a clock could almost be heard over the patter of rain as the time passed.
Each second proved more and more difficult for the dragon to stand, and she found herself becoming increasingly antsy for an answer. The patter of rain against the room almost began to fall in sync with the passing moments.
When finally Cynder could take no more did Gilda’s beak open. However instead of a ridiculous answer, Cynder received one that made her flinch.
“Anger.” Gilda became distant for a moment, seemingly lost in her own world. “It’s something that destroys everything, friendships, kingdoms, everything.” Gilda’s voice nearly broke near the end, something that Cynder had to strain to catch.
“While, that’s more thoughtful than I expected, that’s incorrect. It’s time.” Gilda seemed to break from her momentary lapse in character. Cursing to herself, the avian cast her gaze downward. Frowning, Gilda appeared more downcast than before.
“Hey, a deal’s a deal.” Cynder pushed gently, attempting to not further aggravate the upset griffin more than she had already. Feeling slightly remorseful for pressing the nerve, Cynder started to try and subtly move the conversation away from that.
“Look Gilda, I’m not trying to hurt you, I just think if whatever you’re gonna say involves -- ” A wet cough and raspy grinding sensation interrupted the dragon’s statement. The violent hacking moved Gilda a bit from her lingering despondence. “ -- Sorry. If it involves me, which I’m getting the feeling it does, I’d like to know about it.”
“Listen…” Gilda stammered, an uncomfortable grimace crossing her features. “I… I need your help and I really wish I didn’t.” Cynder faltered, her muzzle and eyes twitching in the low flickering lamp-light. The hen couldn’t quite work her jaw again.
The black-scaled dragoness got an odd sense of déjà vu, like she was looking into a cracked mirror with someone else watching right back. A twisting, writhing sense of turmoil wormed its way into the dragoness’s gut, threatening to foul her mood into the ground.
All she could think of right now was how to get back to Spyro, to make sure he was alright, a fear that was virtually consuming her more and more by the minute. Cynder could practically feel each scale on her body crawling, craving to know where her partner was.
Each moment was elegic, a shifting desert that was threatening to suffocate her under its weight. Despite that, she held her ground as best she could, keeping her sharp emerald irises focused on the nervously darting gold ones in front of her.
Pushing the worry as far back into her mind as possible, Cynder tried to show the best of focus on the antsy female in front of her, who at the moment was averting her eyes and fiddling with her claws. Snapping her claws together once, Cynder caught the eyes of her temporary companion once more.
“What… what do you need?” Just as the words squeaked out of her throat, the dragoness broke into a violent coughing fit, seeming as if the extended conversation was breaking down her healing throat. Bringing a paw to her throat and one to her maw, Cynder hid the most brutal of hacks, the occasional hiccup of noise slipping through. The fit lasted nearly thirty seconds, which by the end left her feeling rather lightheaded.
“...Maybe you need it more than I do….” Gilda gave her a slightly uneasy glance, to which Cynder returned with a harsh grunt of disapproval. The griffin seemed hesitant to continue on, however Cynder was able to coax it out of her with a few more slurred words and guttural noises.
Gilda gave the dragon a long, hard stare, taking in every detail of her form. The sharper claws, the more numerous fangs. Everything about this creature spoke “predator”. This was only accented by the fact that her scales were marred with a large array of scars and malformed cuts and bruises.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out that she was very much a different breed than the rest of the dragons the griffin had encountered. As it stood, Gilda was desperate, very desperate. While she trusted the other female about as far as she could throw her, her help would be invaluable.
She would have to take a chance here.
“My family… they… may be in danger.” Cynder stared at her for a quick second as the griffin fumbled over her words. Following a prompting paw, Gilda sighed heavily and knit her eyebrows. It seemed Rainbow’s lessons had only helped her so much; still took one hell of an effort to ask for help.
“Listen, you’re a soldier right?” Gilda blurted out, cheeks burning slightly in embarrassment. Cynder doubled back for a moment, flinching hard. The dragoness checked herself momentarily, but eventually nodded lightly, averting her eyes.
The dragoness’s claws flexed nearly on their own accord, scratching lightly against the wooden floors. Gilda’s implications weren’t hard to draw, but it still gave the black dragoness a shudder to really think of how obvious that conclusion was.
“Well, my dad used to be… and… oh how do I put this --” Gilda snarled at herself roughly, drawing a brow-raise from the other female. “Let’s just say he didn’t leave the military on the best of terms.”
Cynder’s brow furrowed. What exactly was the griffin implying here? Was the gnarled male she had only met once before some kind of traitor? She hadn’t the longest interaction with him, however he seemed a bit prideful, definitely not the kind.
“I’ve kept my heritage secret from those within the government of our people, it was mostly my father’s doing, his twisted idea of keeping me safe.” Gilda scoffed lowly, cutting her sentence off for a moment. Cynder sat patiently, waiting for exactly where this concerned her.
“Why… me?” Cynder’s hoarse, scratchy voice cut the thick air like a knife.
“I’m getting to that. The few connections I have in the capital are close to the military, and they are aware of who my father is. They told me that the King’s spies had found my father’s home.”
Cynder’s jade irises sparkled in alarm and her pupils widened. The very house they stood in now.
“Griffins don’t look kindly on traitors and deserters. They will kill my father if they find him.” A terrified glint appeared on Gilda’s expression for a split second. Cynder couldn’t pretend to understand that fear, fear of your parents being killed.
Her only family was Spyro now.
“Just run.” The words tasted strange on Cynder’s tongue, almost like acid. Gilda rolled her eyes and gave a defeated huff.
“That won’t be enough anymore, I can’t risk this happening if I’m not around to stop it. My dad is too old to fight anymore, he would be slaughtered.” The dragoness felt her stomach churn slightly. As little as she knew these griffins, they had saved her from death, she owed them a debt.
“Then what’s your --” Cynder was momentarily cut off by a terrible bout of wet coughing. A talon grasping at her throat, she nearly keeled over as the fit left her lightheaded. “What’s your plan?” The words burned.
“The military is wide, they can only deal with so many matters at once. My father isn’t top priority, but they will get to him eventually.” Gilda pointed a claw across at the dragoness. “Destroy the records they have on him and that should get rid of the intrigue without them even realizing.”
Without even realizing it, the black dragoness had been poking holes in Gilda’s plan. “You’re not a soldier, and something about those wings tells me you’re not the fastest griffin.” As expected, Gilda squawked in indignation.
Gilda couldn’t help but stutter quietly for a quick moment, stopping and scratching her beak idly while averting her gaze from those ever glowing jade pools. While initially skeptical of Cynder’s particularly strong sense of truth from deception, Gilda was more than a little caught of guard by her perceptiveness. Thankfully for the avian, the injured dragon didn’t seem completely immune.
“Well… that’s kind of the point. I can’t fight well, but I believe you can.” Cynder’s brow raised further at the bold statement, sensing something in her words she couldn’t quite discern yet. Before she could voice this, Gilda continued. “Come on, with those scars I saw on you, that can only mean one thing.”
“And what would that be?” Cynder growled defensively, not liking the direction this conversation was heading by any means.
“You get beat around a lot, but you haven’t been killed. Either you’re stupidly lucky, or you kill everything before it kills you. I’d like to believe the latter is true.” Gilda’s gold irises gleamed in amusement at the somewhat stupefied look on the dragon’s face.
Despite the blush coloring her scales almost imperceptibly, Cynder was impressed. She hadn’t yet presumed the griffin to be foolish or ignorant, but this proved yet more confirmation at just the opposite. Although slightly blindsided by the almost devious way Gilda took pleasure in surprising her, Cynder quickly masked her expression.
“I guess I’ll have to give you that one. I get the feeling I know where you’re going with this.” Cynder sighed, lowering her aching form to the ground, hiding a groan as a particular twinge ran down her spine.
Gilda nodded once, going silent for several moments.
“I hate to ask you of this, I honestly do, but there’s not really anyone else I can turn to. I’d like to say we could just run and hide, but… but that’s no way to live.” Gilda shivered uncomfortably.
Cynder was nearly tempted to feel sympathy for this mysterious griffin, but she hadn’t quite opened herself up that much yet. Swallowing hard, the dragon thought for a moment. This would be a trip alright, one that would delay her return to Spyro by several months at least. There would be no way for her to reach him, that she knew.
However, Cynder’s guilt laden mind simply couldn’t allow the charity of this family of avians to go unanswered. Her connection in this was one that demanded no recourse on her part, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that her part to play in this may be important, more so than she had yet to realize.
“Alright, only because I owe this to you and your family. I won’t leave you in the dark.” Cynder sighed once more. “How far away is this place?”
“At least two weeks flight. At worst, three or four.” Cynder winced at that number. This was under the implication she would even be able to fly. The dragon saw fit to bring this to light.
“Implying that it takes me a month to heal, and if I can even fly, this is a three or four month round trip. If you’re running on a clock are you sure we can push that?” The griffin was silent for several moments, her face not moving.
An awkward silence passed, an uncomfortable feeling entering Cynder’s gut. Was she right to take this prospect? Was this an ally she could rely on? Gilda didn’t have her thinking that for very long.
“If you can’t fly, we should be able to avoid the walk by taking… a less conventional route. The mountains are the reason a ground trip would take months, but I do know there is a way through.”
“A safe one?”
“Define safe.” the griffin deadpanned. Cynder resisted the urge to growl. Stemming her temper before it could lash like an angry snake was quite the process, she hated to admit.
“It’ll have to do, time isn’t exactly an ally.”
Gilda nodded once, silently. With a quick shake of her head Gilda walked back to the door. Stopping for a quick moment, Gilda waited before turning back. Tension visibly raced along her spine for a split second. The griffin kept this way for a few more seconds before turning her head slightly.
In a tone of voice that Cynder hadn’t heard in a very long time, griffin remarked to her an unassuming statement.
“You’re different.” The griffin stated simply, before pushing past the door slowly, the wood creaking lowly and ominously for the briefest of moments. Before the latch could click back over the heavy wooded structure, Cynder caught the last fragments of a mumbled statement. “....Ouroboros, hun er din skaperverket.”
Cynder wasn’t sure what to make of that. Without another word, the dragon returned to her nest of blankets, flopping down slowly with a pained moan. Curling her bladed tail around her still heavily bandaged form, the near mummified dragon pulled the blade closer, resting it almost against the tip of her snout.
Outside, unbeknownst to her, the storm began to rage.
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