//------------------------------//
// Chapter 9 
// Story: Fire on the Mountain 
// by MongolianFoodHoarder 
//------------------------------//

“...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.