Zaphzia. A land of sporadic forests and hills littered throughout that, while, beautiful on their own, proved disgusting when dotting the vast empty plains like warts on a pristine face.
Despite the curvature of the planet and Zaphzia's place within it, if one was to stand within the great flatness of Northern Evia, they would be able to see a hundred mile away. It proved bountiful for the cossacks that resided here, for reconnaissance proved easier still despite being able to scout adequately by flying.
But as always, every positive had its drawbacks, for the enemies too, could see them easily. It was fortunate then that those that the cossacks raided did not come from the Great Plains, but from across the river, where common forests and hills masked the approach of an incoming raid.
It was in these conditions that a Herzlandic camp had been constructed. Atop one of the few elevated grounds seldom appropriated as 'hills' where the soldiers of the Empire could rest. Many were left in a pity for they could not enjoy the abundant game that the lands of Zaphzia were famous for, as the the insurrectionists had stripped the land bare.
Thankfully, the soldiers of Grover II did not starve thanks to the latter's diligence, for he made extensive efforts in establishing supply depots with adequate garrisons to dot alongside the sparse roads that he followed. Straight into the capital of the treacherous Hetman, who made frequent, albeit inconsequential ventures in the forms of skirmishes to disturb his solid supply lines.
The successes so far had led to a celebratory mood to fester within the Prince's camp, best described through the observation by a certain old Cossack 'impressed' into the Empire's service. His brief glances while hastily marching towards the Silver Tent brought him a new perspective and thereby, opinion of these griffons west of Evi.
The Herzlanders of the camp, though, lived up to their reputation. Ever-vigilant, glistening armour perpetually adorned with their pikes, halberds or longswords continually being polished or sharpened in cycles.
Their martial culture dictated that they should be ready for a battle at any given breathing moment, ever-evident from their masterfully forged armour carved with the sigils of Arcturus, their common God of War, who would undoubtedly bring them victory through strength. They only hoped the sacrifice would be solely paid by the enemy, and not their own blood.
In polar opposites, the Aquileians, whose griffons were situated only a stone tossed south of the Herzlander's homeland of Central Griffonia were much too relaxed, at least, in the view of their northern cousins.
Unlike the martial Herzlanders, the Aquileians were mostly a mercantile culture. Representative of this fact, they did not wear the same tonnage of armour as their northern brethren. Instead, the hedonists wore posh textiles, vaguely resembling uniforms, without considering the variety of colours and patterns of the coats they wore over their clean, white undercoats.
The only aspect of their apparel that was standardised and signified that they were, indeed, soldiers, and not gentlegriffs intending to attend a ball, was their dark, violet vests. It tightly hugged their midriffs, compressing the plumes in between, providing the Aquileian soldiers a deceivingly lean frame, almost unworthy of a masculine soldier of war, if only, it had not made them look so dashing.
To finish off their looks, they wore a wide-brimmed cavalier hat, made of the finest felts imported from Equestria. They were topped with either the illustrious scale of a fearsome dragon or the chained horns of a mighty southern minotaur.
The biggest point of contention, however, was the colour the Aquileans wore. Grover I had first tried, but quickly reversed his attempts to remove the regionalism that existed within his great Empire. The colour purple, associated with the Discrete dynasty of the Acquilean kingdom was seen as the sorest thumb of the centralisation issue.
For many Herzlanders, like Grover II, they saw the Aquileian's insistence to wear purple as not only an insult, but an existential threat for the future stability of the Empire. The Prince and others fell for the usual 'slippery-slope' fallacy, of believing that the minuette concession to any marginal cultural group of the Empire would lead to a domino-effect of others asking for similar concessions, eventually leading to the decentralisation and ultimate disintegration of the Empire.
The annoyance with their southern neighbours was further compounded by the Aquilean's pretentious love of wine, which they considered a more refined drink compared to the 'barbaric' ale and beer of the Herzlanders.
They would've had a point, if not for the telltale blood-red stains of wine that seemed to always carelessly permeate on the tip of their beaks. The bottle that caused it was usually close around, likely loosely hanging on a limp claw by their side as they staggered drunk along the camp, a goofy wide smile on their faces, almost always leaning on a comrade who was similarly plastered.
The sparse among them that remained sober similarly maintained their arms like the Herzlanders, although distractedly, absently twiddling their extravagant moustaches, which effort to maintain mirrored their northern brethren's care for their most prized armour.
The Aquileians, Danilo noted, were almost all ranged. The wine-lovers possessed the latest designs of muskets, both domestically produced and imported from the Equestrians, as evident from the qualitative flintlock models. Despite their hedonism, he found respect in that the Aquileians held their weapons extremely close. Almost too close, he reckoned, enough to turn their wives jealous or seem unfaithful, considering the elaborate personal engravings on every unique musket, and how closely they held their weapons at all times.
In contrast, their comically large shields laid always on their feet or haphazardly laid on the camp's ground while their master drunkenly wandered. While such abandonment signified disuse, the bare number of shields that had their faces up told otherwise through their hideous scars.
Danilo was distracted by a sudden commotion to his right. Even with a momentary glance, he immediately realised who was in the wrong.
The Southern Griffonians were similarly known for their mercantilism. Their impressive ports and matching quality ships attested to that. Combined with fertile fields, abundant natural resources, a highly literate populace (at least when compared to the regions of Griffonia), great roads, extensive trade routes and a direct connection to the golden goose that was Equestria by proxy via a land border with New Mareland meant the lynchpin of Souther Griffonia, Wingbardy was the proverbial 'crown jewel' of the Empire.
While such a title would warrant respect, the Wingbardians received the opposite, much from their own doing. If the Aquileans were despised in the empire for being pretentious snobs who thought they were better than everygriff, the Wingbardians then would be the presumable targets of a popular lynching.
The Empire at large were deeply xenophobic. Compound that with the past's mentality of extreme prejudice, any creature that deviated from 'their' ways of life was not only seen as foreign and weird, but dangerous. Contact with the Equestrians and subsequent trade was rumoured to make a griffon weak. Bloated. Far too soft and therefore, an insult to their gods that favoured strength above all. The Herzlanders feared it may be contagious. The Evians and Northern Griffonians too.
Prosperity was overseen in fears of straying from the 'moral' path that their gods destined them to follow. Trade with Equestria was akin to heresy to some circles in the capital of the Empire, Griffonstone.
And no other creatures in all of Griffonia had more trade agreements, contracts and common contact with the Equestrians than the Wingbardians did. For that, they were universally despised by all in the Empire, even by the Aquileans out of jealousy, who desperately tried to curry more favour from the Equestrians by allowing their settlement within their lands.
Despite the almost ruinous tariffs and tax levied to prevent trading with the ponies across the sea, the profits still incentivised the Wingbardians to barter, inadvertently becoming the greatest contributors to Grover's coffers. The current emperor only refrained from ceasing the trade outright through a ban or further tariffs once wisely deducting it would only lead to illegal smuggling and, therefore, untaxable transactions.
Ah right. The commotion.
It had already concluded by the time Danilo finished briefly contemplating the Empire's southern geopolitical situation. A dark eye now adorned the Wingbardian legionary, a groan of pain escaping from his muffled beak, as it laid face down on a patch of ground conveniently devoid of grass so the Wingbardian could rightfully taste the soil.
"-an' -hic! Stay down!" An evidently drunken Herzlander knight slurred.
Danilo was positive he would tip over at any minute, noticing the awkward 'footwork' of the assailant. He was impressed at how someone that indisposed could throw such a hurting punch. Must be the gauntlet, Danilo figured.
Two other legionaries, probably the injured one's friends, quickly came over to drag their own back towards what was presumably their segregated section of the camp. Danilo swore he noticed them giving the drunken knight and the grinning spectators a spiteful glare.
Danilo absently wondered what the Wingbardian could've possibly done to offend the knight.
But it was enough contemplating. For he had finally reached the entrance of the Silver tent. Its silver frame loomed over him and all others, its symbolism not lost to him, a message to all within the camp that their most holiest and heavenly ordained Prince of the Empire resided there.
Danilo braced himself. Letting in a deep breath. He would need it later when the assured noose wrapped around his neck.
5 minutes earlier
The Prince and the Baron sat beside eachother, a stool for the each of them, forgoing regalty in favour of modesty. This was to the presumable great chagrin of the absent Duke of Swabia.
"I remember it like yester'day Prince. Me, ol' Griffy, alongside your pappy in the glorious campaign against the vile! Fiendish! Princeling of Lushi!" The boisterous Commander boomed, slapping his much younger, yet, best friend Grover II's shoulder. The latter in response, simply rolled his eyes and resisted a sigh at having to listen to 'this' story again.
Ignorant of his friend's reluctance, Griffy swayed his claws dramatically over him, prepared to rehearse his grandiose tale. "T'ere I was! With the honour of leading the Emperor's wing of glory! Facing down those Lushian peasants shaking in their cheap leather boots, and even shittier arms and armour on the left!" Griffy jeered, while Grover II listened passively.
"Oh yeah! Was I mighty annoyed when your daddy forbade us from attacking! The Empire's knights would've made quick work against those Lushian levies! Grounded them really finely! Routed them with a lance up their arses no doubt!" Griffy huffed, "But don't take your father as a fool! He definitely had good reasons not to send me out. Reasons I'm probably too stupid to understand, considering I'm but a child in warfare when compared to your paps!" Griffy lectured.
In response, Grover II rolled his eyes once more. "It's not like I didn't know that..."
Griffy, noticing his Prince's expressions moved to slap his shoulders once more, "Oh don't look so glum, cub! Genius runs in your blood! You'll be an equal, or even better leader of warriors than your father in time, no doubt!"
Grover II forcibly chuckled, "Haha, yeah. I sure do hope I'll be great as my dad." He lazily said.
"Anyways! Our entire line advanced, save my wing, an' those Lushians just watched on dumbly as they let our 'shots'* get in range for a hell ov' a volley!" Griffy cheered with a sinister grin,
Shots* - A term for musketeers or other form of small-arms gunpowder infantry during the age of Renaissance
"It's about the only thing an Aquileian is good for too! Other than being shit-faced drunk or fornicating that is! -Hah!" Griffy jabbed the prince's shoulder. The victim tried not to growl.
"A loud bang! -An' it will melt the 'fat' of the army. It was strange then that the Lushian army didn't just evaporate then and there." Griffy snickered, then moved to nudge his reluctant listener once more. Unfortunately for him, the Prince had adapted and had already moved preemptively to dodge the contact. The baron shrugged in response.
Griffy continued, "Ayep. It was shameful still when it seemed only our side faltered. Damn Aquileians. One shot, and they're gone from the front. Melting into the pikes wielded by our noble Herzland peasants." Griffy crossed his arms, unaware of the breath of relief the Prince silently sighed at his touchy friend's withdrawal.
"Eh, who can blame them, Griffy, it takes near an hour to reload the damn things. They're just making way for the next guy to shoot." Grover II placated,
"Pfft. It's just a damn excuse! Any cock can use a musket! Those snobbish merchants of Aquileia are just hiding behind those guns to excuse themselves from a good, honest day of fighting!" Griffy spat, "Have you seen their shields sire? They despise death! Not to mention their, -their dress! All vanity! No substance!"
Grover II rose a brow. "Do you mean to tell me that you love death?" It was his time to huff, "My, my, in an affair with an older lady are you Griffy? -You saucy devil!" The prince cheekily smiled,
Griffy snapped towards his prince, his face red in embarrassment. "Y-you know that's not what I meant! Also! -What a cheesy joke!" The baron sputtered indignantly.
"-And yours weren't?" The Prince countered succinctly, only to be ignored by the baron who continued the mind-numbing story,
"ANYWAYS! 'Ere be the best part! Once the Lushians exhausted themselves against our pikes and were pelted by the coward's stones, Grover gave the signal for me to charge!" Griffy loudly shouted, retaking the initiative within the 'conversation'.
Grover II, unamused by the dictate and even more uncaring of the self-aggrandising that he knew his friend would engage in, loudly groaned. Subtlety be damned, for he had already made his opinion clear through his 'jabs' of his own.
"Great timing too! For warm winds created an updraft! -Definitely, something the Emperor had been waiting for! Allowing us to quickly fly up and dive towards the bastards with minimal exhaustion to our own!" Griffy dramatically said, waving an imaginary sabre in his empty claw. "Our charge bent their spears! Bent their swords! Bent their resolves! -And finally! Bent-"
"Sires?" A voice from outside the tent entered from the slim opening of the silver tent.
Before Griffy could even think to stall whoever it was outside to finish his majestic tale, the Prince lived up to his quick-thinking reputation by swiftly declaring, "Danilo! Please enter!"
"-Wai," Griffy managed, but was cut off once more,
"Indulge us with information about Swabia's army, would you? It is of great importance we know!" Grover II didn't let up, caring little of how much he was frightening the new griffon in the room with his impatient tone.
Said scared griffon was already grovelling, head turned low with the most sincerest expression in tow. "-I dare not contradict the good words of your own attachès. -I do not presume to know more than what they have already told you, sires." Danilo stammered, unsure of what to say to not offend the competency of the Prince's army, but ultimately blurting out both in his nervousness.
Griffy eyed the new entree dirtily, but Grover reassured Danilo with a disarming smile, allowing the latter's hair to finally settle in calm. "Relax, I'm not gonna poke out your last eyes or something, Danny. I called you over for a different reason." Grover nonchalantly said.
Danilo had enough respite to raise his head just far enough for his only eyes to grace the Prince's expressions, gauging it as if to figure out his intentions by perception alone.
Grover II gave a few sporadic huffs of disbelief, "Ha-I mean, I expected you to flee by now. The fact that you're still here, have followed my orders dutifully, and even willingly walked into my 'den' despite your fear of me is astounding!"
"-Aye, who knew the cossacks were such spineless bastards?" Griffy added with a cocky grin.
Hesitant to answer, Danilo looked aside withdrawingly, a large frown forming on his face. An obvious bait, Grover realised, for him to push for answers. He just reminded himself to exercise caution to not get carried away. He didn't want another bout of storytelling, after all, he wasn't some bourgy therapist!
The concept of the bourgeoise or 'therapist' in its modern form hasn't been invented yet in Grover's time. I have simply used them as literary devices to most eloquently describe the current predicament.
"Let me guess. Are you no longer welcome in the capital-, what was it again? Kaiv? -Yes, was the punishment for failing to convince me, exile? -Execution maybe. Perhaps that pretender wanted to get rid of you, assigning you an impossible task, hmmm?" Grover rapidly queried while his loyal baron dumbly nodded on.
To the Prince's displeasure, Danilo did not reciprocate with a satisfying answer, simply continuing to mutely look away in hesitance.
Grover squinted, thinking hard while stroking his comparably naked chin when compared to the lush beard of Griffy. "No? -Then perhaps you were close to the previous Hetman, the very same the pretender had slain to usurp the title legitimately granted by my father. Or perhaps you had a claim as the head of Gryphian Host, which, was unfairly taken away from you in a failed power struggle? -Your age definitely gives off that impression." Grover asked again.
Danilo slowly shook his head, prompting the Prince to grumble less annoyedly. At least he was making some progress in breaking the cossack's recalcitrance, he thought. He dignified him with a bare response at least.
"Or maybe he was tired of the cunt's shit. No offence, but you lot are an insufferable bunch." Griffy helpfully added,
Seeing his Prince's deadpan expression at his interjection, Griffy quickly spoke in his defence, "What? I knew the guy he usurped. A fucking mess of a cock, if gluttony was a griffon, it would be 'im." he shrugged,
Before it could get awkward, Danilo finally chose this moment to speak, "I... I don't much approve of the current Hetman's conduct." He admitted.
Griffy smiled triumphantly, cheering, "Ah-hah! Ah knew it! -What I tell you fledgling-,"
"-Don't call me a fledgling." Grover mandated.
"... What did I tell you! I've been in their court before, bloody suffocating it is! It ain't 'insensitive' to know they all hate each other's guts!" Griffy declared, "-Huh... But that calls into question... How the hell did y'all agree to elect this sunnavabitch?" The baron eloquently asked.
Danilo blankly stared at the uncouth baron. Momentarily, he could not believe someone of such vulgar vocabulary, tactlessness and ignorance of the thoughts of his peers could be possibly standing with him here, inside the royal tent, but Danilo quickly reminded himself of Griffy's credentials. It was somewhat romantic, he figured, of the baron's entire existence, of a figure whose general intelligence was offset by his genius in battle. Completely contradictory, yet, so suitable for the position he currently presided. An invaluable asset in war, but useless in administration. Oh, how envious other kings would be for Grover to have such a character in his employ. Someone who could not threaten him politically, but remained extremely useful in an essential office.
"I guess we played the role of the 'big bad'." Grover II inserted, "From what all those diplomats that tried to delay us said, our officials seemed to have acted pretty shittily." Grover II guessed, facing Danilo for confirmation.
"We all want peace sire. Even the biggest diehards and sabre-happy Warhawks want peace. But as you know, the everyday peasants, merchants and burghers of the Host desire it most." Danilo sadly remarked, drawing a limp claw over his eyes. "Decades of ceaseless wars, both infighting and raiding have laid the land bare, destroyed. In need of dire rest. Why do you think we so easily bent the knee and acceded the candidate the Empire put forth?" Danilo sighed quite brashly, the previous intent of avoiding provocation forgotten in needing to depart a heart-felt truth.
Danilo continued with a sad tone, "-I tried so hard to work with Polubotok, -but he refused to even review the,"
"Wait, wait, wait. You worked for that fat bastard?!" Griffy shouted believingly, but his face quickly morphed to accommodate a wide laugh, "Forget what I said! You must have spines made of steel to have stuck with him even for a second!" Griffy said with an uproarious laugh, joined by no one.
It was Danilo's turn to eye the baron dirtily, but he managed to continue his recounting while glaring. "When reasonable griffons are unafforded the avenues for dialogue, they most often pick up their swords, and let them do the talking." Danilo darkly summarised, "We Zaphzians are proud lions. Prouder falcons. We don't just let the boot that may stamp us be. We slice the paws of its wearers." He finished gloomily.
Grover II swallowed in contemplation, digesting this 'not-very-new' information, while his friend contrastingly growled.
"Was that a threat you infirmed bast-!" Griffy started, with a raised clenched claw, only to be stopped short by an expecting Danilo.
"It is the truth. It is happening right now, before our eyes." Danilo deadpanned, then faced the Prince, the only audience he seriously acknowledged, "We aren't some mindless treacherous savages as the courtiers and nobles of Griffonstone allege, my Prince. We are a loyal kind; knowledgeable of duties and the weights agreements pertain. -Only if we are given the same respect you expect for us to reciprocate."
Griffy huffed indignantly, disbelieving everything that had just come out of Danilo's beak, but before he could even think of calling him out of it, Grover II thankfully spoke first.
"Then what would you have me do? I can't just subvert the wills of everygriff at court, nor can I convince them." Grover II asked,
"Bullshit." Danilo dared to curse, much to the amusement of the Prince and surprisingly, the baron. Griffy, in contrary to being angry, was absolutely joyed by the cossack's sudden growth of 'balls'.
Danilo spoke with great certainty, his eyes staring straight through the young prince from their sheer intensity, "Your line holds the Idol of Boreas. Your father has constructed a near-perfect state of absolutist autocracy. Most important of all, I have seen the soldiers of the camp. I have seen how they react to your every word. Seen how moved they were, entranced even. Perhaps it is the effects of the Idol, but they nevertheless mention you in hushed tones of greatness, milord, and I am not too blind from the lack of eye to see that you are destined for greatness." Danilo spoke with the least intent of flattery, as he uttered every word and sentence like it was an obvious truth. He gave off a tone that disagreeing would implicitly equate to stupidity, like a child disagreeing with the simple truth that the Earth was round, or one plus one, was indeed, equal to two.
"-And I do not think that you are so blind yourself to not realise your destiny, sire. And I am even more sure of the fact that YOU CAN, AND WILL break the proverbial beaks of those indulgent, despotic nobles of Griffonstone." Danilo ascertained.
The tent had grown quiet at this point, only the faint noises of soldiers nearby and the guard clattering in their armour standing guard at the entrance could be heard.
Griffy was thoroughly impressed at the cossack's sudden resolve and his mirrored evaluation of the Prince. Maybe this could work out, after all.
Grover II meanwhile, gave a neutral expression. Completely indecipherable as always, but Danilo honestly began preferring it to Griffy's unrestraint.
"...I always had a talent for attracting weirdos." Grover II finally spoke, rising from his stool. Danilo eyed him wearily, recoiling slightly when the Prince raised a claw over to him, eventually landing on his shoulder reassuringly.
Grover turned to Griffy with a manic grin. "Fabulous weirdos."
The Prince snapped towards the old cossack, who was beautifully his surprsied-self again. "Welcome to the team Danny! -Hope you don't go insane!" He slapped him HARD. Grover was assuredly learning something from the Baron.
Uncaring of this fact, Danilo began regretting his life decisions. Only for a well-timed announcement by the standing guards to cease any time to contemplate.
"My lords!" A familiar-sounding guard announced. Danilo figured it was the very same that pointed a spear at him. "A wee-bit cloaked griffon seeks an audience with you!"
"I'm not small!" An unknown irate voice contested,
The guard continued regardless, "He claims to be in the employ of Apostle! -Should I turn this bed-warmer away, sire?!"
"Okay, you're just being a dick on purpose." The unknown voice spat.
Griffy gave Danilo a brief look of 'he with you?'
The recipient of said look suddenly realised the benefits of having such an uncouth personality. Griffy's facial muscles had been exercised so thoroughly that they could even transmit messages, considering Danilo's ability to read them off so accurately. But for now, Danilo gave a curt nod.
"Send 'im in!" Griffy spoke without pause, not waiting for his Prince's input. To his relief, if he had any awareness, Grover II didn't seem to mind much.
Danilo quickly moved to welcome the new griffon in, even courteously opening the flaps of the tent to usher him in. Surprise, behold, the griffon was, indeed, small as the guards had attested, and considering how gently Danilo led him in, Griffy was sure to embarrass the old cossack later for hiring a griffon with the frames of a 'bed attendant'. Shit, wait! What if he really was a bed warmer?! -How uncouth!
Grover II scanned the new 'griffon', gauging the possibility that he might actually be a bed-warmer considering he was completely hooded and had an aura of trained secrecy. One honed out of their private will and voluntarily exercised to boot. Most interesting of all, the cloak the newcomer wore reached down to their paws, completely covering them in darkness. What are you hiding? Grover immediatrly thought.
The newcomer nonchalantly trotted into the tent, his steps extremely light and making not a sound. He absently looked around the tent, even without his face uncloaked, everygriff in the room could tell he was somewhat bored and even a tad bit unimpressed.
"Eh, I've seen better." The cloaked griffon blurted with a shrugged shoulder.
Danilo balked, "Watch your mouth! You're in the presence of royalty!" he hastily reprimanded,
But it was unnecessary, as this was no ordinary noble camp, but the property of the Crown Prince, who was more amused than aghast with brazen guests.
"Hah! I already love this cub!" Griffy shouted,
"I'm not a child!" The small figure angrily snapped,
"There's fight in 'em too!" Griffy pointed at the newcomer in novelty, shaking his friend as if to accentuate his great pleasure.
"Who is he?"
Grover had asked, but considering the aura he was exuding, it seemed more like a demand. Griffy and the newcomer seemed immune to it though, the former more out of ignorance and the latter due to bravery. Unfortunately, Danilo seemed to share neither of the qualities, as he nearly suffocated from the sudden attention.
They had been laughing merely a second ago! What's with the sudden threat?! Danilo swore to never underestimate the Prince... Again.
"H-He is my apprentice, sire." Danilo managed to not stammer out.
"Oh-, izzit true?" Griffy smiled predatorily at the hooded griffon, and barely resisted the urge to lick his beak devilishly to frighten the poor lass.
It would all be for naught though, as the newcomer seemed indifferent to threats.
Speaking of threats, a certain Prince was embodying it. Sending innumerous danger signals to anygriff predisposed to sensing it... And rightfully feeling endangered by it.
"...You better have a damned good reason to let a hooded griffon in without prior checking, Danny." Grover II dangerously queried, his face darkening with exception to his eyes that took on a void-like quality. It stared right into everyone's soul. Except Griffy though. He was just built different.
"I'm giving alot of leeway. I broke a loooot of protocols. So repay me the favour will ya?" Grover II's smile became visible to those susceptible, his pastel-yellow beak unfurling from the deep darkness in a toothless grin. "Unfurl that hood."
"Grace us with that ugly mug!" Griffy cheered.
Danilo could not believe the baron. His brain compounded the matter, since it became stuck in indecision on whether to be slaw-jacked or remain frozen in fear. Either way, he could not act.
Thankfully, he wouldn't have to.
Taking the available initiative, the newcomer took it graciously, reaching with a concealed appendage to unfurl the part of the cloak hiding his head.
The Prince immediately entered a state of appraisal. "Expressions? Still unamused. Eyes? Half-lidded in boredom. Face? Hints of a constant frown. Colourisation? Sky-blue. Messy mane...? Ocean blue? Wait, floppy ears?! -MUZZLE?!"
Grover's brows impossibly rose,
"A FUCKING PONY?!"
Griffy grabbed his sword.