"I can't believe it," the young hippogriff sighed as he heaved his rucksack into the carriage.
It would take two days, but for the first time in years he would make another visit to Equestria, and to see the royalty, no less. This hippogriff was the prince and son of the High King of the Griffin Empire, but no less bashful and ready to slip when under pressure. He had grown to near adulthood - even taken on a title of knight and dragoneer, by no means of his heritage or status. No easy feat for any to claim.
"I see you packed your Dragon Tongue, too, my boy," the elderly, plump griffon said.
The Prince's escort and preferred carer, Baron Whiteplume, the prince's own seneschal, was a griffon of many means. He valued sentimentality and the idealised vision of rank and military. But above that, he valued the Prince, considering him his son - much attributed to having lost his own to a fatal infection.
So mighty was the High King reign, that only the nobles had the privilege to serve under the throne, or even as soldiers.
"I don't want Celestia to see me without it," the Prince insisted. He pulled the sword from its sheath and held it up at face-level. "Celestia knows the history of these swords as well as any griffon, and now that I have one for myself, I don't want to squander the chance to show it."
"Just don't go scratching it now, Prince, it's a relic of old."
"It was forged with unicorn magic! No spell or blow can tarnish it and it always radiates with a blue hue!"
"I know what a Dragon Tongue is, prince, but there's only twenty-eight known surviving blades out of the 120 that were forged. I only worry it might be lost."
"Would I lose it?" the Prince challenged.
"... Of course not. You are always so cautious."
"Can we get a move on? Or am I gonna moult in here before we're off?" cried a nagging voice from the carriage.
"Patience," Whiteplume urged, "we have not yet seen the King."
A messenger descended the stairs in composed haste to meet Whiteplume and the Prince.
"What have you?" Whiteplume demanded.
"The King regrets he will not be seeing you off," the messenger started, "but he asked that I pass this to you, the Prince. A parting gift."
"For me?" the Prince asked.
"Yes, your sheath is not befitting of the sword it carries. Your father commissioned a master craftsman to create a new one."
The messenger held up a wrapped, elongated object. The Prince took the gift and unwrapped it. A new sheath, of dark wood with golden trims and symbols. Encrusted with hot gemstones, it had a dark finish.
"It matches the hilt to my sword," the Prince said in surprise.
"I had the chance to describe it to the King," Whiteplume explained, "but I didn't expect him to do this."
"Give father my gratitude," the Prince said and began replacing the old sheath for the new one, "this is a fine gift I won't soon be able to repay him even if I live a hundred years more."
"So sentimental, boy," Whiteplume said in admiration, "treasure it well. And let's be rid of that dragon hide sheath you once called yours."
"I'm fine to be rid of it, Baron. Cotton was never quite fond of it."
"I can hear you!" the voice inside the carriage nagged.
"Consider it payment for your service," the Prince said and passed the old sheath to the messenger. Dragon hide was priced by its weight in gold, no less.
The two climbed inside the carriage where Cotton, a light pink dragon, half the height of a griffon, sat with her arms crossed. At her age she had become exceptionally irate, but remained loyal nonetheless to the Prince she swore to serve. And now she only wanted to be gone from this place; having never left the empire before.
"You'll love Equestria," the prince assured. "There are many dragons there."
"In captivity?" Cotton demanded.
"No, the ponies don't capture dragons as we do," the prince insisted. "Theirs' roam free, gather hoards and sleep their time away when they feel like it. They also partake in migrations every now and then when the time comes."
Cotton inspected her own wings upon hearing this. Hers were not yet grown enough to be called true wings, more like sprouts.
"One day you'll go on one, and decide for yourself if you'd rather stay with us," Whiteplume informed, "such has always been the way of the dragoneers."
The Prince smiled and saw Cotton barely restrain a smile of her own. "Just you wait, everything will be great."