//------------------------------//
// Chapter Two: The Jäger 
// Story: Ruina Imperii: The Wings of Freedom 
// by DeLoreanTM 
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 Nur der Jäger lebt

“I’ll tell you right now son, what’s out there was never meant for living eyes.” The conductor had said, his word still humming through my mind like a bug. He looked like a mad crone when I first saw him, moulting feathers and an unwavering stare that seemed as pale as the moon, yet he gave me this look that didn’t look like it was composed of lunacy- that much I understood. If I was crazy enough to believe it myself, I swear his words echoed from something much more- a past memory perhaps. 

The trail of my quill came to a standstill, clogged halfway through the sentence that was to describe my experience thus far. I frowned at the thought of changing even the smallest of details in my plan, from the way I recorded these events and the very words I would use: Heroes at the front, act of valour, feat of bravery, the moment of victory, those were the words that everyone wanted to hear back home. I was hardly the one to side with pessimism, but it was as if his words reminded me that I was being shipped off to the battlefield, a place where lives were lost and the true nature of survival reared its ugly head. The thought made me shiver and I had this creeping doubt that I wasn't prepared for this whole ordeal, so why didn't I stay away like I always have? beyond my ego I didn't want any business in this.

Inexperience was somewhat of a given characteristic that everyone guessed me for, hardly for my small stature but for refusing to slash at the neck of a living target. Because I was raised, unlike many other Griffons, in the Equestrian city of Trottingham; a place I hardly remembered, I was not what they called 'blessed' with the gut of a true Griffon. I was even born and raised there with my widowed mother for about 5 years, even attending a local school which was as awkward as I could remember. Mother was a particularly astute individual and when the first signs of trouble began to brew we left Equestria in a heartbeat with no emotional tears or mourning, though the question of why still burned in my head at that time, which my mother explained as ‘high time for you to start learning about your cultural heritage.’ 

She was quite mistaken at that point, and she knew perfectly well it was. At first thought I didn't give two feathers on learning about the Griffon Kingdom, as far as I knew Equestrians drank with the cup half full and Griffons half empty. But I was very much proven incorrect about that assumption because the two were quite different in more ways than one. For example; in Equestria, art could be seen as many things: paintings, sculptures, all that good stuff whilst in the Griffon Kingdom, you certainly had all that except gladiatorial slaughter was on that list as well. As one of my drunk companions had once said to me during one of these matches where I'd been forced to watch, 'to kill is the true measure of strength and the art of glory'.  

Maybe I needed to put things into perspective, other nations had cultures that were different to my viewpoint and surely there's nothing wrong with that? You can try sell that to me as for as long as you like, however there is only so much I can believe when every fledgling you met told you that their dream was to murder everyone that the state deemed to be the enemy. I once had someone tell me that I hadn't a clue of what real culture was, and to Tartarus with him, murder wasn't culture no matter how much glitter you put on it.

It was a miracle that I even survived all that forced brutality and totalitarian regime they called schools, though I was able slip pass through the smoke and chaos of the recent political instability. Everything seemed to go my way until I sought higher education at the Royal University and my fortune started to go down the drain after basic mandatory military training was introduced. Unsurprisingly, I was indifferent to my instructor and refused to take part in the training, the poor sod; I made him look like moron when every other military instructor had all their cadets perfectly trained, I never felt good as that in my life. However my luck ran out and my pacifism garnered disapproval from the university who, in combination with the information of my previous dwelling in Equestria, concluded my chapter as ‘weak and feeble’, and simply closed the book at that, sending me off. But then I suppose I would too, for I was a sad little character trapped within my own Nouveau Roman: a disillusioned spiral towards an endless sea of expectations within my own imagination

I was in shambles, realizing the only thing worse than death was seeing the hope of fitting into society being burned in front of you. Destiny however, seemed to perceive the rules a bit differently and more than often I felt as though its recent meddling had allowed me to discover something remarkable: Literature. There wasn’t much to it when I discovered it, not a cry of Eureka or a fantastic display of fireworks, it was just one normal evening when I picked up a quill and paper and began to write.  

I didn’t expect it to be my lifeline, nor did I expect my works to garner any attention but without even realizing I had turned little scribbles of thoughts into entire novels that piled up boundlessly on one another without end. Luckily for me I wasn’t the only one who noticed, and soon I was offered a place at the nation’s printing press of ‘The Eagle Daily’ as an amateur journalist and reporter, where the only things I ever reported on was how many letters I had to bring in to the editor, a nice little job which allowed me to be better off than at least a hundred thousand other Griffons which put food on my plate and a roof over my head.

Then everything changed when war broke out, without a moment’s notice the Empire revved the gears of war into maximum drive, issuing ridiculous rations and showing off the new glistening machines of war that the elite were eager to demonstrate. Funnily enough, even as those bulking machines past through the streets there was still an air of secrecy that made itself a dangerous target for those willing to scrutinize, we were not even told a war would ensue. The suddenness of it all didn’t pass the careful eye momentarily either, and I too asked questions to the soldiers that passed down the parades and marches, all to hear the same answer. The truth was that nobody really knew specifics; the only thing anyone knew was that a standoff between the Empire and Equestria would be involved. That was as far as my investigation went because soon my workload tripled in response to the growing tension. As expected the press wanted all over the action and I soon found myself thanking that it had happened because I finally had real work trusted to me. All of it involved reviewing soon-to-be published articles; as in accordance with age, I was the youngest and therefore the least experienced to be writing full-blown articles just yet. Sometimes what was released into the open was hardly trivial news: trade embargos, the complaints of some diplomats, it hardly seemed like it would go anywhere that would involve the giant cannons and marching formations that I’d seen. But I remember as clear as day, August 25th, a review was handed in and I saw the first glimpse of the invasion on Equestrian soil and I was convinced that this was the real deal. By the time I’d handed the article for publishing, I was on the road towards a much bigger story. 

Because pictures were the only things the soldiers could send back, the entire press sought to find journalists and reporters that could get in on the action. Without even operating on rational thought, I volunteered immediately, seeing it as a chance to prove to myself I had the courage to do dangerous and outwardly rash things and to do something for this country since I wasn’t even considered for recruitment. I know I wasn’t a big fan of Griffon politics, but at heart I was still after all, a Griffon, and if the homeland needed me I would do what I could. The older journalists were more reluctant to let me go, they told me I was crazy and that I would end up in a fantastically-realistic tragedy and die in what they called ’the meat-grinder of a disillusioned crusade’. Nonetheless here I was, catching the express to Westward port despite the fact that I was rarely stubborn at all. 

At this point I felt at unease and took deep breaths,  whispering a mantra-like incantation that I’d once overheard through the radio; ‘I believe with all that I know, that the simple truth was that we were the proudest, strongest and courageous nation that had ever arose from the dust. We alone fought the bitterness of our defeat and came back twice as strong’. Milk and honey of language I would’ve called it, if not for the fact it seemed so inexplicable true. Pride was something we’d been robbed off, and was that a given virtue that should never have been taken from us, and we had brave heroes to thank for the return of what belonged to us. I wasn’t one of them and sure enough I wanted to prove my worth more than anything, and no matter how much you hated the culture or the mind-set, justice had to be given where it was due.

One little comment shouldn’t change that.

I leaned cautiously over the rail, watching with blank thought as a trail of lush forests passed by, each one as different as separate worlds but not devoid of that similar beauty. I never saw quite the full glimpse at this rushing hour at night as there was no light in the passenger compartment, I wondered if this was what it felt like to just fall through an empty chasm of nothingness, because besides the quiet rattling of the train, it was mainly quiet around here save the occasional hollering from the neighbouring passenger car. If I was really metaphysical about it, I would call the night a chum of mine, an old chap I always used to have a glass with if I considered drinking on a regular basis. Other than his company, I preferred to stay alone most the time, which I found helped with concentration. Loneliness never knocked on my door too often, but there was still an element of it lingering behind the back of my mind, but friends were luxuries, not something I needed. 

In any case, friend or not, where I was heading there would be darkness and the Westward port the gateway to a new world, where I would leave the sanctuary of home to an exciting frontier.

“A gateway to a new world” I whispered to myself, as if the sound would make it perceived any better. It was a fine introduction to my adventure I suppose, if nothing it seemed like a good contender for the article title. 

I wasn’t supposed to smile at that thought, and I certainly wasn’t all too happy about being taken from the ‘safety of home’, something I guessed that others like me would feel. But titles were hard to flesh out, even more so to give it the impact of what you’d expect. I was under the pressure of the expectations of the worried folks back home, and I had a responsibility to tell the truth. After all, my job was to report what was to happen.

I scribbled in the title, feeling a rush of excitement as I stared at the rest of that blank page in my notebook. Blankness was something intriguing to the creative mind, it was nothing yet potentially it could be anything. If it made any sense, the magic of creation lies in what is not there rather than what is. There was no limit to what it could be; from recreating every memory to minute detail or twisting the infinite realm of my imagination and forge new extremes and ideals- all from the flick of the quill. Though, I was disappointed my job would not allow for imagination, for that was what drew me to the literary arts in the first place, the ambiguity of what could happen still fascinates me.

I wasted no time in planning the opening line, the eye catcher that would grab the reader’s attention with so much force their eyeballs would be at the mercy of my quill.

Suddenly the whole cart seemed to lurch to one side with an enormous screech, presumably through a sharp corner and almost sending me across the other side if I hadn’t instinctively reached for the side handle. But in my panic the notebook slipped from my lap and flew into squatting darkness of the underside of the opposite end of the seats, sliding to the other side with a distinctive thud.

“Bollocks,” I cursed silently, eyeing something around me that I could illuminate the darkness with. Certainly the train services had thought this out thoroughly, for in the case of utter obscurity a lamp or a bloody match shouldn’t be provided so the passengers can walk around like blind moles, what utter jokes. Ever since I arrived here 14 years ago, the only thing I’ve seen that were illuminated by proper lighting was the streets on Griffon New Year, hadn’t seen a spark of modern lighting since.

I suppose there was only one way and I went down all fours and crouched underneath to try and look for the darn thing. The floor smelt like cheap cleaning fluid mixed with what only could be the smell of what it was supposed to clean off and I put a note on my mental checklist that a shower would be due for even touching this. I put my head level to the floor underneath the seat and scanned around with only the faint light of the moon to guide me and to be honest there were some things you’d never expect to see on a train: cups, door handles, silhouettes of what can only be assumed as holiday decorations and other questionable materials. In short, almost everything except the notebook.

I reached out with my arm, sweeping the floor to try and see if it would settle on that familiar leathery cover. I must’ve looked like an idiot flailing my arms around like that and the only thing I got in return was a coughing seizure from the dust cloud I conjured from my bewildered flustering. I felt a shiver of disgust run through my spine, it was like peering into an enormous crevasse of uncertainty and though I reckoned I would've found it if I’d just taken a larger sweep, I really didn’t like the idea of what my claw would touch in there, probably dead bodies from the looks of it. 

I eyed the place where the only source of artificial light came from, the window attached to the door that led to the next-door carriage, where the laughter and involuntary cursing seemed to be getting louder. From the looks of the orange light that flickered behind those murky windows, whoever was on the other side had candles.

I stood up, dusting myself before heading towards the exit as the carriage still bounced around like a bull with rabies. Another ingenious moron of this train service even decided, for absolutely no practical reason at all, that it would be a splendid idea to split the passenger compartments with a thin piece of poorly painted steel that looked ridiculously out of place. I suppose you could argue it was to make the compartment look like it could hold more, and it saved me the trouble of walking across the connector pin to a separate carriage and being thrown off to my death from all the jerky movements this train was making.

I took a deep breath as my claw rested on that handle, the plan seemed simple enough; I would go in and kindly ask to borrow a candle and return it once I found my book, there was no capacity for it to go horribly wrong was there?

I pushed down on the level-style handle and the thing jerked back at me like a snake, knocking me aside like I wasn’t worthy and I began to feel a hint of anger rising. Et tu handle? It all seemed like an elaborate ruse to annoy me: this darkness, the notebook, now even the bloody door demanded mutiny.

I took the socially correct path and simply knocked, “Mind if you could open the door?” I yelled. I waited patiently for a few minutes, hoping that it would be flung open like the gates of heaven, but nothing came. I put the side of my head against the door, trying to hear if they were having trouble opening it on the other side or even opening it at all. Nothing, only more sounds of laughter which were probably masking my cries.

With an annoyed grunt I put both claws on the level and heaved it downwards with all my strength, augmented by leaning the rest of my body against the door to try and force it to yield. My struggle was rewarded as the door now began to move but in my delight I never realized the background noises had fallen to a complete silence.

But it was already too late, whatever ancient construct was holding it back broke loose and my satisfaction immediately turned to horror as the door flung wide open and I too with it. I let out a small yelp as I landed headfirst into the floor and before I could process anything that just happened, a terrible sound of grinding metal burst through my ears like the crack of a whip and at the corner of my vision; I saw a shadow loom over me. A skull-shattering explosion followed and I drifted off, blacking out into a blanket of stars.

*

Voices, that’s all I heard; voices of distant lands. So this is what it felt like to be dead, to float restlessly among the fabric of space where the wind pushed you along where it pleased, nimble and free from the cage of mortality. Death was an unusually dark place, a confusing dark place. I was sure I was dead, but I still saw myself on the mirror’s edge, was it a reflection of myself or the other way around?

“You don’t think he’s dead do you?”

There was an angel; he would carry me off to the next world. They were divine beings, just like the preachers always said, with pure feathers of white and graceful arms that caught you like mother would, and oh how I missed her. I wasn’t ready to die, but the voices were getting louder, calling me…

“Only one way to tell I suppose.”

Then, out of nowhere, a flood. Something poured across my darkness and began to ebb it away, small patches that burned in the darkness began to spread into a wildfire of reality, raining down only once with the force of a falling boulder and ejected me back into earth with that familiar heaviness, coughing and wheezing for air. I felt the fabric of the train seat underneath me, that same pulsating touch of the train’s movement, reality. 

“Look, he’s come around, let me get a kit from the officer, I’m sure they’ll have one somewhere.”

I slowly opened my eyes, only to meet another pair staring right back at me. 

“Hey kid.”

I jerked back in surprise, only to cry out in pain. I reeled back on the seat almost falling off, covering my head with my arms. The pain, as if my brain had been ricocheted all over my head, faded given a few minutes, but it was no more painful than an open wound as far as I was aware. The Griffon put his claws around my arms and managed to lift me back on the seat without any sign of strain.

“Take it easy kid, you hurt your head real bad.”

My cognitive skills were spinning around in wild orbit, I felt like every word I spoke became a slur of a less intelligent species, degrading at the least.

“Wh-What Happened?” I managed to ask.

At this point I realized I could only see a portion of this stranger’s face; white feathers and a light azure streak that ran across his longer ones, painted dimly in a crimson shade by the flickering candle next to him. The look in his eyes, a reflection of the unwavering flame that danced on the wick, seemed to burn with a strong spirit that retained the calm and rationality of his tranquil expression. Besides that, the dark cloak that fell over his black collared uniform, emblazoned with the eagle’s cross suggested he was a soldier. But that black uniform underneath was not reminiscent of any of the frontline soldiers I had spoken too, who wore mostly grey.

“Maybe you should ask that yourself, trying to force the old door like that.” He smiled, obviously slightly amused by my attempt. He took out some kind of bottle and with a single swig, reduced several centimetres off the liquid from the bottle before extending it to me. “Here, you want a drink?”

I took a whiff, almost fainting in surprise at that smell. I was a light drinker myself, and by that I mean only a glass of wine a month, but there seemed to be enough alcohol in there to kill anybody. It took sheer willpower alone not to pass out from the fumes, let alone drink it. There was a strong possibility that he seemed calm due to… whatever kind of poison that was.

“I’ll pass,” I answered quickly.

He simply shrugged and continued his drink, “Suit yourself, I can’t blame you for not wanting to.” He placed a cap over it and placed it underneath his seat, “Say, I didn’t quite catch the reason why you tried to bust down that door, did it look at you funny?” he chuckled.

Quite the comedian he was, and some part of me wanted to reply with a snappy comeback but I kept it to myself, thinking for my better judgment.

“I lost a book and I couldn’t find it without a light. I thought I could borrow one from here.” I sort of trailed off at that last sentence, as I slowly remembered something before being knocked out silly. The lights, there were more than one floating around here when I looked through the window, and if there was one light here than something told me that this place was not at full attendance. This stranger couldn’t have made all that loud noises either, so where was the other one?

The old Griffon nodded and reached for his satchel which was slung over his back and produced a wax tube no larger than my claw, promptly nearing the top of it with his own candle until the flame reached out towards tip of the unburned fuel, “dark isn’t it? Always be ready in times like these, for when darkness shrouds someone must be prepared to light it.”
He tossed the flaming thing towards me, and in quick panic I juggled it around like a clown until I had a firm grasp of it, sighing in relief. I never actually handled a candle so close before, and to my surprise the waxy exterior was cold despite the flame. 

“Um, thanks.”

The soldier slowly kneeled in front of me and put a reassuring claw on my shoulder. “There’s no need for that, we all have to watch each other’s back. Don’t go just yet though; you wait until your head comes round.” He went back onto his own seat which faced directly at me at the opposite side of the carriage and slumped over until his wings sprawled over, moving to find the best position as if he was getting to fall right asleep.

Surprisingly, he pulled out to what seemed like a tiny white tube and placed the end of it on his candle. Under the light of a single flame, I thought it was about to light another one until I saw a slightly wispy trail leave from the end. The smell was unmistakeable, and my eyes widened in horror as the slight hint of smoke now travelled the air around me. My throat felt dry as the nervousness crept in, and the old soldier noticed my shivering.

“T-That, isn’t that b-banned?” I asked worriedly. He stared at me like he had no idea what I was talking about, but I knew everyone in the kingdom should’ve known. For tobacco products had been labelled illegal by the newly-reigning government and all those found with the substance had all been put on trial, sometimes even without, for a possible punishment of death or banishment. I knew some Griffons had habits, but what I couldn’t get my head around was that some were willing to engage themselves within the black market only to satisfy that craving: a craving of inhaling poison no less.

He didn’t share my concern; instead he laughed it off like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard off. “Of course it’s banned, but I paid an arm and a leg for these,” he mused. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve been near close to death more than a few times in my life.” He then quickly stared out the window, almost as if to stop me from looking at his face.
“In the end, what difference does it make?”

I didn’t quite understand what he meant, but he must’ve been a veteran who was returning from his leave from the looks of it. Before I could say anything in response, the whole carriage shuddered as the door on the furthest end opened with a mighty hiss as a sudden rush of air bellowed in the room, hailing the mysterious figure that now stood at its entrance. I felt a small sense of fear shoot through me as a pair of green eyes settled on me with a piercing gaze as it closed the gate behind him with a mighty swing. 

Whoever he was, his tone of voice matched his rather threatening posture. “So this is the little scoundrel that interrupted us,” he bellowed, walking closer towards me until the crimson hue now enveloped him, revealing his finer features. He was imposing, to say the least, with a mane of brown feathers that weren’t aligned in a groomed fashion and even a darker shade of brown around his eyes. His uniform also bore resemblance to the mysterious black colour of the other one: the same cloak and cross.

“You better have some God-given reason to have barged your way in here you little bastard.” He barked.

I opened my beak to try and say something but the old soldier beat me to it, “Let him be brother, he just needed a candle to light his own carriage.” He replied calmly, letting a ring of smoke puff through the air.

Magnus, who I would need to write later on my list of Griffons I would need to avoid, looked at him and scowled, yet relented as he closed his eyes and sighed. “You always had a soft spot for weaklings Barbarus, only god knows how you became a soldier in the first place.”

Barbarus? That name rung through my head like a pinball until it rung a bell, it was unbelievable. I felt my heart race as I tried to place the weight of that name against the soldier in front of me, but it didn’t seem possible. I read about his name in the papers, even on some of the things I’d reviewed, all of whom said the same thing: Barbarus, a legend amongst us, nightmare for his enemies. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t recognized him as soon as I saw him.

“You’re Barbarus? You mean, the –“

“The will of the Rapier.” He finished, eying my awe. “Yes, that’s me.”

I felt like a child trying to piece all this together, but I was genuinely for once, enjoying this childish excitement in seeing a legend before me. “The captain of the Jäger command: the hunters.” I said breathlessly. 

Back home, they weren’t as celebrated, save Barbarus himself, but they really did stand out amongst the other factions of the military and they were the few Griffons I really looked up too. For once thing, all of them were precise in everything they did, unlike the other soldiers who just threw obstacles away through sheer force, the Jäger command were commandos that trained themselves to the limit of their dexterous prowess. Everything they did: their swordsmanship, the way they handled low-altitude aerial combat, just seemed more like a work of art rather than actual combat.

Barbarus raised his eyebrow, laughing to himself as he nudged Magnus, who was still looking at me with a vicious glare. “Well what do you know brother? We actually have young ones, who look up to us as heroes.” He smiled, as if he couldn’t believe it himself.

“They all admire us Barbarus, and they all turn away just as quickly. What makes this one so different?” He scorned, taking a seat beside him. I realized he was holding something, a small white cylinder with a finely textured appearance.
Magnus caught me looking and with a grunt he gently flung the roll at me, which I struggled to catch with only one claw at my disposal with the candle in the other. It was a bandage. 

“What’s this for?” I asked.

He gestured to his head and soon after ruffling through my own feathers I felt a small saturation on my claws, which turned out to be in my horror, blood. Before I could ask again he tapped his paw onto the steel door that was lying in front of me and the dent where my head had supposedly been knocked into.

I laughed weakly, apologizing for the ruckus. I started to wrap some around my head, before tying it firm. I never actually thought that military training would actually be useful for something; there really was a first for everything.

“So, you must be a new recruit,” Barbarus spoke up. “How’s everything back home, everyone coping well?”

I cut the end of the bandage with a claw and tossed the roll back to Magnus. “Yeah fine I suppose, the toilets are clogged most of the day but other than that everything’s the same.”

Humouring seemed to work, as now I had caught Magnus’s attention on the matter, a tone of voice much quieter than what I could only assume was his ‘inside’ voice. “Let me guess, a soldier off to explore the world or to give his heart to the emperor, which will it be?” He glared, eyes narrowed.

“Actually I’m not a soldier I’m a journalist-”

I was cut short as Magnus took no time at all to lift me by the collar into the air, almost choking me by the neck. His face was etched with fury, fuelled by what I could only tell was a mixture of suspicion and hatred that was only inches away from burning me. I knew he probably wasn’t the happiest chap I’d ever seen but was with the sudden mood change? I tried to struggle against his grip but he was as strong as a Minotaur, completely unmovable.

“A journalist huh?” he bellowed, looking me right in the eye. “You’re on a mission to preach to the world about our war, huh? I bet you have some god-damn intention to tell the folks back home how eager everyone here was to fight in it! But guess what? They’re all dead kid; you should’ve been here to write the story of their courage when they were alive, not memoirs written on their graves!”

I felt my heart skip a beat, if not from the shock and confusion, most definitely from his strangling. What was this guy on about? What did he mean by already dead? Questions were hard to keep pondering on when someone held you by the neck but I tried to brush it off, because that was impossible.

“How can they be dead already?” I gagged. “The war began only days ago!”

That was it. Magnus’s iron grip was released as I fell to my seat again with a thud, gasping for air. He stared into the blank horizon with eyes that no longer burned with any colour at all, just bewilderment. The darkness enveloped all three of us as silence hung on the air like a foul stench.

“So this is what they’ve been telling you, this whole time?” he whispered.

I nodded quickly, still having no clue what in the world I just witnessed I looked over to Barbarus to try and explain. The calm still flickered in his eyes, dancing upon thoughts I could never see when at long last he spoke.

“Kid, this war has been raging for 6 months.”