//------------------------------// // Grey Space // Story: Landsick // by redsquirrel456 //------------------------------// Empty mugs thrust in her face. Angry griffons behind them, screeching, laughing, scowling. Gertie tried to smile as she tipped the barrel in her arms, pouring rich amber rum into the offered vessels. Drinking was the closest thing griffons had to a religious experience, and drinking in unison was sermon, hymn, and benediction all at once. The crew of the airship Harridan was especially devout. Pouring her way down the line, Gertie belted out the opening stanza of Teeth of Karrak’s Peak. Oh, the fire on the mountain burning bright, how I long to sail the Sword Wind now! Her voice was drowned out by near three dozen others, male and female but all stentorian, all vicious, cutting the air with their words. The kind of voice that would shred the throats of lesser creatures. The kind of voice that rejoiced in shredding. Two hundred spears took wing that day, two hundred eager warriors born to slay! Her blood was high like all the rest, and she missed the final mug in line, spilling rum into the lap of a big male named Viktor who had the head of a golden eagle, which put him about as far above Gertie on the hierarchy as a cloud from a fish. Everyone knew that falcons like Gertie just did not mess with eagles—eagles messed with whoever they wanted. Of course, the one thing griffons found more hilarious than punishing transgressions against tradition was laughing at the violence involved in the punishments, and that’s exactly why everyone found her breach of conduct so easy to laugh at. They whooped and hollered at Viktor’s enraged expression, but all Gertie got was a hammer punch to the jaw. She went spinning through the air and fell across a table at the far end of the mess hall. The griffons sitting there raised their drinks to save them from spilling. They all laughed as well, and she forced herself to join in. To show weakness over such a minor incident would only invite more scorn, and as a falcon, weakness was both expected and despised. She could not afford either with drinks and punches flying tonight. “Gertie!” an owl-headed female named Hedwig said, lifting her by the scruff of her neck. “Still causing trouble?” “Oh, you know me,” Gertie said through the pain in her chin, “big enough to get in the way, too small to take a punch.” “Well, hopefully you get a black eye,” Hedwig said, dropping Gertie on the seat next to her and patting her back, which for a griffon essentially meant punching someone between the shoulder blades. “You’re a falcon, so you need to show them you can endure.” “Ha! I made it three weeks on this junk ship with Viktor stepping on my tail. I can take anything with that oaf in my way.” “Still a week till we make it back to Aeria,” said a gruff eagle-headed male next to Hedwig. “If I were you, I’d charge back over there and clout the lout with his own mug. Might spark a riot. It’d blow off some steam before we make it to port.” Gertie looked down at her claws, clenched into fists. She felt her talons digging into her scales. Twitching. Aching. She gritted her teeth and shook her head, smiling even though it made her beak ache. “Nah,” she said. “He’s an eagle, they’re always jerks—no offense, Otto.” “None taken, it’s true,” the eagle-headed male said. “So it’s license to rake your claws across his face. He spits on your honor.” Gertie shrugged. “He’s punching so far down everyone knows he’s all talk anyway.” The others shared uncertain looks as Gertie settled in with them, surreptitiously snatching a full mug from the table behind her. She was always better with her hands when they weren’t fists. “So! Last leg of the trip, huh? Figures it’s the worst one.” “The crew has been getting impatient for days. I think it is disgraceful,” said Hedwig. “A warrior needs patience and discipline.” “A warrior needs enemies!” crowed Garth, another male. “A month-long stint on a cramped trading vessel is sure to drive anyone mad. It’s the peace, I tell you. It makes a griffon want to fly. And when griffons fly, it’s to hunt!” “We’re hunting good deals,” said Hedwig. “The captain is hunting good deals. Honor will be heaped on his banner, not ours.” Garth rounded on Gertie. “And if this one would just raise her own banner up a little higher...” “Do we really have to talk about me so much?” said Gertie, leaning back as her claws tap-tapped the table. “I can’t be the only thing worth gossiping about on this tub.” Garth shook his head. “You keep trying to hide, like a mouse! It makes the others sniff you out. If you don’t do something worth talking about before this trip’s over, you can kiss your chances of further recruitment goodbye! Might as well move to Griffonstone where the other unambitious among us live.” “Speaking of unambitious,” Hedwig nodded towards the front of the mess hall. A trio of griffons were gathered around a small, huddled shape against the wall. “Oh, no,” said Gertie. “Are they bullying the passenger again?” Otto shrugged off her concern. “He paid for space on a griffon ship. Should’ve known to stay out of the mess hall.” The passenger was an earth pony, his ash-grey coat easy to spot under the mess hall’s lanterns. He had the typical stocky build of earth ponies, stretched over a lean, quick frame totally lacking the pudge of most ponies. Though, most ponies weren’t found riding on griffon airships at the edge of the world. He bowed his head as a griffon shoved his shoulder, hiding his eyes beneath a mane the color of autumn leaves. A pair of playfully brawling hawks—it was still playful because blood had not been spilled—blocked her view of the unfolding abuse, and Gertie turned away with a miserable sigh. “That isn’t fair,” she said, picking at the table. “We should all know better than to push around someone who bought fair passage.” “He should know better than to mess with griffons,” Hedwig said, shrugging and taking a swig of rum. “What do you care? His reasons for being so passive are not yours, Gertie. Ponies are supposed to be weak. It’s what they do. It’s in their blood. You are a griffon. It is your nature to fight.” “Are you that curious about the softer folk?” Otto asked. “Don’t tell me you still wish to speak to him. Two weeks on this crate and he hasn’t said a word, just stares off into space.” “Well, maybe if someone didn’t walk up expecting a fistfight every time…” Gertie muttered. “Bah! If it worries you so much you go talk to him.” “Maybe I will!” Gertie exclaimed. “I’m just saying he shouldn’t be expected to know our ways. If he did hit back they’d tear him to shreds anyway.” “He’s an earth pony. They’re supposed to be tough. So let him tough it out,” Hedwig said with another, more aggressive shrug. “Oh, speaking of… he’s leaving.” Gertie turned around to see the pony retreat aft-ward, towards what passed for the cabins, and the ladders leading to the upper decks. “Another pony thing,” Garth muttered. “Running away. Always running! Cloistering themselves in ‘Equestria.’ Let ‘em have it, I say. Griffons can have the rest.” And deep down Gertie agreed with him. Let them have Equestria and their strange, soft ways. Let them have their queer home across the sea. Let her have the hope of somewhere to run. Gertie found the pony in his usual place later in the evening, leaning against the forecastle railing near the bow of the Harridan. Thick fog smothered the ship, beading on the stallion’s fur. The breeze was a steady reminder of the airship’s forward momentum here in this impenetrable fog bank. The click of Gertie’s claws on the deck perked his ears, and he glanced over his shoulder. They shared a nod, brusque but not unfriendly. The mist smothered sight and sound with a holy stillness, and they felt obligated to keep speaking to a minimum. “You’re soaked,” Gertie finally said, waving her wing at his damp trench coat. It hung heavy over his flanks. He grunted and returned to his aimless vigil, staring over the ship’s bow into the void. “Yeah,” he said, with gruffness that made him sound older than he looked. “I’ve been here a few hours.” “A few days, more like,” Gertie said, smirking as she reared up on her rear legs and braced against the rail. “What are you hoping to see out here? This is Mistarkand. Obscuring fog is in the name.” The pony considered that for a while, watching the mist as it roiled. “I happen to enjoy the sensation of forward motion,” he said, with a hint of southern Equestrian drawl. “Ponies like feeling the wind gust their mane, you know. But I’m no aeronaut, so a clue to our current heading would be much appreciated.” Gertie clacked her beak, giving the pony a sidelong glance. “Compass says we’re heading south-southeast, but until we clear the fog bank it’s up to the rudder and the mistgliders to keep the path straight.” “You don’t trust the compass?” the pony huffed. “That explains why we’ve been in this pea soup for two full days. Probably should’ve found a different ship.” “Heh.” Gertie’s tail lashed the deck. “You can’t really trust your own senses here. The mist is magical. Instruments sometimes fail. The gliders will see us through if our compass kicks it, though.” “Heard something about those at the last port,” the pony said. “What exactly are they?” Gertie smiled, and joined him in leaning on the railing. One of the only things to do on these slovenly merchant junks was entertain passengers with talk of the local legends—ponies usually made good audiences, with their big expressive eyes and penchant for ‘oooh’ing and ‘aaah’ing at the slightest provocation. “Like will o’ the wisps, except they don’t kill you. Nobody knows what they look like, on account they seem to be made of air. All you see is a parting of the mist, and the feeling of eyes on you. Some way wind spirits, some say ghosts. When someone is lost in the fog, they show up when you least expect it, and give ships a gentle nudge out, even big old galleons, so they gotta be big. Some say they hear songs like whales. They don’t let you sit still, either. Pirates have tried to use this place as a base of operations more than once.” She smirked with cocksure mischief. “At least until the gliders nudge them out of the fog and into range of navy cannons.” “How fortuitous,” the pony agreed. A moment of silence, punctuated by a cough. “My name’s Gertie,” she said, picking at the wood beneath her claws. “Happy Trails,” the pony answered. “Seriously?” Gertie scoffed. “Ponies and your poetic names, I swear.” “Wouldn’t really know,” the pony said. “My friends call me Trails.” “What for?” “Shorter to say,” said Trails, shrugging. “Full pony names can be a bit of a mouthful. I never really took to them well.” Gertie peered at the way he leaned on the railing. Most ponies leaned bodily against a given surface, but she hadn’t seen Trails drop to all fours since he boarded the ship. Mostly, he just stayed still, here at the railing. “Looks like you don’t take to a lot of pony things well.” “Yeah?” Trails asked. His face scrunched with suspicion as he hopped off the rail and stood on all four legs, turning to face her fully. “How so?” “I don’t mean anything by it!” Gertie squeaked, raising her claws. “I was just trying to say you don’t usually see earth ponies riding airships this far off the normal trade routes, y’know?” She attempted to smile; instead, she showed her teeth in an awkward grimace. “It was supposed to be a segue.” He grunted and turned back to the mist. This time the silence fell like dead weight, pulling an invisible curtain down between them. Trails seemed to think the conversation was already over. Gertie tapped her claws together, her cheeks burning from an embarrassed blush, which only made her even more uncomfortable. Griffons hated one thing more than any other, and that was being caught off guard. She hadn’t expected a pony of all things to be so… anti-social. All the others she knew had been inveterate chatterboxes. “Well, anyway,” she said, more to save face than a desire to acquaint herself with Trails, “the whole point is you’re an earth pony and you’re way up in the air. That’s a bit incongruous.” She shrugged. “Learned that word from a well-read gazelle, heh.” Trails blinked slowly. “... I’m not usually this talkative,” he said, deadpan. Gertie smiled. “Ahh, it’s okay. I like having a good conversation partner. You may not have noticed, but the rest of the crew is kind of a bunch of jerks, which I guess is saying something given this is one of the hardest stretches of the trip yet, and—” She stopped talking when she noticed Trails’ raised eyebrow. “Oh that was a joke!” she blurted out. One might mistake her gritted teeth for a smile. “I get it, because you don’t actually say much and stuff! Ha ha ha and all that! Good one, good one...” “... Sure,” Trails drawled. “A joke.” Gertie turned away, rubbing the back of her neck. How long until her next shift again? “Is it really the hardest stretch?” Trails wondered aloud. “Well, yeah!” Gertie blurted out. “Mistarkand is one of the most remote places in the world, and we’re heading to one of the most remote villages in that most remote place.” “So long as it’s far as they say, that’s good enough for me,” Trails muttered. “What’s the place we’re docking next called again?” Gertie smiled. “Dust.” “Dust?” “It’s a mining town. That’s what I heard, anyway. Nobody cared to name it anything else, and mining kicks up a lot of dust, so… Dust. Did you not check where we were going before you boarded the ship?” “Heard it was going far away,” Trails answered with a shrug. “Heard there was somewhere even further’n that beyond these mountains. Decided I’d try to make it.” “Terminus?” Gertie squawked. “Are you really going to Terminus?” “Oh, izzat what it’s called?” Trails said with a low chuckle. “It must be the end of the world if they call it that. And if it’s the end, then that’s where I’m going.” “Well, the end of the map, anyway,” Gertie said. “Why are you going there?” Trails turned away until she couldn’t see his face. “‘Cuz it’s the end,” he said. “No better place for someone like me.” The silence that fell then did not feel holy, or heavy, or much of anything at all. It simply was, with no sign that a word had ever passed between them. Gertie cleared her throat and backed away, heading for the lower decks once again, to the rowdy mess hall and the surly crew, impatient with the long journey and eager to vent their frustration on anyone who looked at them funny. This part of the trip was the best time to talk to passengers to avoid her crewmates’ nasty tempers, but that short conversation felt about as comfortable as getting her tail tied in a knot—and she knew what that felt like, thanks to Viktor. Passengers at least kept to themselves this far away from civilization, and made for better conversation. One just didn’t come out here without a very good, usually very interesting reason. But this pony was better at keeping things close to his chest than the usual drifters. Maybe his reason was too good, and she was being rude by prying. She looked back one more time. He was back on two legs, chin on his hoof, staring into the mist. As if they hadn’t even spoken. As if his mind was already elsewhere, beyond the horizon, past even the furthest edge a ship dared to travel. When she bumped into the pony next—he was still at his usual spot, but on all fours this time—she did it because she couldn’t see out of her left eye. She rammed him shoulder-first and only disentangled after a lot of squawking and squirming. “Ow, watch it,” growled Happy Trails, shoving her away, and then, seeing her swollen face, “Geez, you get in a fight with a yak?” “Friedrich, actually,” Gertie replied, gingerly tapping the bruise. “It happened yesterday, doesn’t even hurt anymore.” Trails glanced uneasily back and forth. “Should I be worried, or…?” “Huh? Nah,” Gertie said, chuckling. “Griffon crews get rowdy after so long on a boat. I actually broke my first stool over Hans’ head today! Everyone was really congratulatory.” “Right,” said Trails. “I haven’t met many griffons in my time. You’re the least prickly of the bunch for sure.” “It’s my curse to bear.” Gertie smiled, fluffing her wings proudly. “I will say you’re lucky to meet me! Most griffons don’t have time for people who won’t assert themselves.” “And that’s what that is?” he asked, gesturing at her shiner. “Asserting?” “More or less. Relieves boredom. Improves your reflexes. Promotes bonding. It helps.” Trails squinted suspiciously. “Helps, huh?” he muttered. “What if you ain’t interested in hitting back?” “Griffons are always interested in hitting back,” Gertie said quickly. “Always. Really!” “Uh huh,” said Trails, giving her a sidelong glance. Gertie’s smile did not waver. He turned back to the open sky. The ship had broken out of the fog bank some time during the night, and now hovered over a hostile mountain wasteland. A vast and terrible expanse of cold stone and frigid air spread out beneath them, lit by cold, harsh sunlight. Many still had stubborn snow on their peaks even in the middle of spring, but most were were ancient and weathered down. Even so, the only vegetation to be seen were thin skirts of evergreens and hardy shrubs. There was not a single road to be seen. “Shoot,” Trails hissed. “This is the kind of land’ll kill you soon as look at you. How’d anyone even get out here in the first place?” “Duh,” Gertie said, playfully flapping her wings. The airship slipped between two proud peaks still pointing spear-like into the sky, and followed a thin river snaking its way eastward. The hard stone finally gave way to a thin valley below, run through with that miserably small river (which looked more like a stream) and patches of dry tundra grass. A third mountain bulged into the valley from the north, cradling a sad smattering of buildings upon a wide flat shelf that almost looked carved into the rock itself, as if someone had taken a saw and sliced out a portion for the town to rest in. A rickety tower stood at the edge of the precipice, shepherding a dilapidated pier and several warehouses. “No lights,” Trails muttered. “No ponies, no griffons.” “There used to be a signal fire at the top of the tower,” Gertie said. “But they don’t bother with it anymore. The only ships that come through have taken the route so many times they know it like the back of their paws. Used to be talk of making this a major stopping point on the way to Terminus, but ever since investment in colonization dried up, it’s just the end of the line. From here you gotta walk.” “Folk in Terminus don’t need trade?” Trails wondered. “Folk in Terminus don’t want trade. Nowadays going there is a one-way trip. They only go there to get away from it all, or have nowhere else to go.” Gertie said, a tinge of sadness in her voice. “Leastways, I’ve never heard of anyone coming back. Is that what you’re looking for?” “Sure ‘nuff,” Trails answered. “My legs were gettin’ itchy anyways. If I gotta walk so much the better.” “I like wings, personally,” Gertie said with a happy flap. “You can just eat up the miles with these babies.” “Well then,” Trails grunted, chin in hoof, “too bad bein’ a pegasus weren’t in the cards.” Gertie tilted her head. “Yeah, too bad we can’t all go back in the egg for a second go-around, huh?” Trails sighed, shaking his head. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again, and very deliberately turned away. Gertie’s wings twitched nervously, and in the silence that followed she felt the cold understanding of someone who had said something dreadfully wrong but did not know what. Seconds dragged into minutes that dragged her away as Dust drew closer and she was called to help prepare the rigging. She left, but the guilt remained, and she couldn’t help but send one last remorseful look over her shoulder. Trails stayed right where she found him. Not once did his gaze waver from the sight of the distant mountains and the unknown reaches of Terminus beyond, and when the Harridan lurched into port, he was off and walking before anyone even saw him leave.