Tor was awoken with a bright, searing pain lancing straight into his open eyes. With a cry of agony, he quickly rolled over, only for him to land two feet down on the cold tile floor. He rose on his rump with a groggy groan, only to be sniped again through his scarlet curtains. Instead of retreating behind his bed, he took the next best step and shielded his face with a talon.
The worst is over! He sighed in relief, cursing the early morning sun. While he moved to get off the floor, a new pain bore into his brain — the cursed skull-splitting pain of the hangover. He moaned in agony while he steadied himself on the mantle next to his bed. To his surprise, a little glass chalice sat on the mantle, with water sparkling inside. His head pounded a little more while he reached for the water, slowly drinking it as to not evoke the wrath of his angry gut.
He leaned against the mantle while he groaned more. Its maple underside was aglow from a warm fire crackling beneath it. Tor idly flapped his wings to draw in the heat. Okay. No more drinking. Never again.
It was a comfortable lie.
Tor didn't notice the silver tray that came with the water at first, only to realize it after putting the glass back where it came from. The glass was joined by a few more items: A dried piece of toast, a black jar with accompanying knife, and a piece of parchment. Taking a last swig, he grabbed the jar and knife.
He twisted open the top, and a sudden belching of old beer rolled into the room. His face contorted with nausea, not expecting the smell to throw him off. Even the smell of yeast extract can help you through a hangover — blech!
He dipped the knife into the black stuff, scooping a small glob of the sticky, mucus-like goo. He set the jar down and replaced it with the toast. He spread a thin layer upon the stiff brown surface, stopping suddenly — Damn, was there any butter put on this?
The overwhelming taste of salt slid over his tongue after the first bite, eliciting a satisfied moan from Tor. He leaned on the mantle nonchalantly, taking little sips of water between bites. All the while he rubbed his temples, trying desperately to ease his suffering.
Sure he wasn't going to spew anytime soon, he pulled the parchment from the tray, shaking off any crumbs. He took the last few bites before reading:
Lord Tor Razorwing,
Thank you for the relaxing evening in your stead. I apologize for not staying around in the morning, but I have duties to attend to. Your conversation held quite a bit of weight as we spoke; It’s been years since I’ve been thought of so highly by a gentletiercel such as yourself — It's unfathomable if it'll happen to me again. You have no idea how little conversation I have that involves social matters. To be frank, your time has been refreshing.
I found odd, however, that you have no servant on the estate, or at least, from what you’ve told me, not one who lives here with you. Lots of nobles like to show them off, but you are of a different sort. So, at your surprising request, I placed out what you had asked. I’m not sure about this black jar, though. It makes me uncomfortable, and looks like something that the Six would banish from Sarmma and into Toke Gün. But, you say it's a hangover cure, so I won't argue.
I must keep this message as short as my remaining time. I have made the bed (which was beautiful — The view from the balcony was breathtaking. I'd just live out there if I could) and have left your supplies on your mantle, as promised.
Six guide you,
-R
Tor chuckled bashfully, idly playing with his headfeathers. She was a wonderful guest, he thought, while looking over the elegant writing again. Very knowledgeable, very... fun. He sighed wistfully. She certainly was something.
Though, Gaius was right about her talonwriting. It was beautifully written. Script like this, Tor thought, is reserved for those who have been educated. Good talonwriting was not uncommon with the lower classes. However, the style Rovena used had definite signs of education, and a sort of cadence evoked only from calligraphic training. Not even he possessed the skill — As a fledgling, he willfully neglected to learn it.
From the corner of his eye, Tor saw his disheveled appearance in a full-length mirror across the room. He wore nothing but a white, wrinkled nightgown. From there, his glanced at the ornate grandmother clock hanging above the mirror.
“Half past six,” he spoke aloud. “A good time to be awake.” He pulled the nightgown off, stopping to rub his head, hoping it wouldn't explode from the pressure. He opened his wardrobe and retrieved something simple: A white linen shirt with Prench-cuffs (a relatively new fashion), with matching brown waistcoat and breeches. It would be obscured by his black senatorial banyan, but it was comfortable and low-key.
While tying his cravat, he approached a small weapons rack that hung next to his bed. They were all swords, and personal favorites of Tor. He reached for his gold-hilted saber and slung its baldric over his waistcoat.
He looked up at a sword that sat above the ceremonial saber. It was a long sword, missing its scabbard. Once beautifully shining, it was tarnished and dull. A good day to sharpen it up, he concluded, and enclosed the blade with a towel.
He made his way out of his chambers, into the foyer of his humble abode. Unlike most who resided on the eighth tier, he slept on the bottom floor. So, instead of emerging onto a balcony overseeing the foyer, he exited in shadows, beneath the perch of the second story.
“Good morning, milord,” a voice rang out, echoing in the cavernous room. Tor looked over to the entrance of the formal dining room, where the voice emanated: An elegantly dressed eagless casually strolled, her talons clicking across the tile with each stride. A small collection of cleaning implements hung off a belt straddling her midsection.
“Good morning, Regina,” Tor replied, nodding to her in greeting. “I hope everything is in order today?”
“Quite.” she remarked, slowly advancing towards Tor. Her voice was that same sing-song accent the madame of the Golden Mask had, but more breathy. “I couldn’t help but notice that the guest bedroom was occupied this morning.”
“Yes. She was —"
“Here on a social visit,” Regina interrupted, holding up a talon. “Oh, he spilled like one of the city’s hot oil drums when I found her.” Tor acknowledged her discovery with a nod and a smile. Regina was significantly older than he, and an aura of wisdom persisted around her tired, purple eyes. Tor dropped onto all fours in respect.
She chuckled as she walked past. “The girl was very scared of me.”
Tor chortled, replying, “A blazed in a lord’s household? I would imagine so.”
“Aye, but I've been told I've a bit of a gruff demeanor." She smirked. "Though, she seems like a smart cookie — Are ye trying to get her out of the slums?”
Tor rubbed a finger under his beak. “She has scribe skills that deserve recognition, I think. An eagless like her would do well in a secretary’s job — You know, the one you rejected.”
“Ah, abusing yer power once more, I see." Regina smiled, pointed an accusing feather duster at Tor. "It’s going to get ye in trouble.” Tor shrugged, but the thought had crossed his mind.
She approached a picture that hung on the inclined wall of the staircase, dusting off the top. “I saw the note as I brought in yer meal,” she quickly segued. “Apparently the lass prepared everything before she awoke this morning.”
“I faintly recall asking her to put it out for you,” Tor recollected, circling around to her right side. “You did tell me you had some dusting to attend to today, so I didn’t want a meal to be on your duties.”
“Very kind of ye, milord,” Regina chuckled. “However, ye know that toast is but a minute of me time?”
He shrugged as he approached the door. “A minute more for you to finish. Why stay longer when you can get done early?”
“Ye sweet talker, Tor.”
Tor chuckled while he rose to his back paws. He clasped the brass handle of the oak door and pressed down on the thumb latch. "Have a good day, Regina. Don't work too hard."
"Never do," Regina replied, waving with the duster. "Best of luck, milord."
A brief thought crossed his mind as he left while sliding open the door. I wonder — When I lift gryphs from their station, am I filtering them through to our benefit? He walked through, briefly looking back to Regina. Are we defining what constitutes as merit?
Tor walked out onto the street and the warm summer morning, shaking off his mood. It felt like his head was beaten with a blackjack as the shine strained his eyes. Looking up, he could see the great tiers above, bustling with activity. The upper tiers glowed pristine under the warm glow of the sun. Though, none could compete with the great tower that was the Spire.
The Spire was a towering obelisk of polished stone, with intricately carved designs swirling up and around its diameter. Hundreds of windows and balconies dotted its facade, as if another city lived inside. Within the great structure held the most important workings of the Confederacy and the home of its bicameral ruling body. It could be seen from any point in the city of Stoneanchor as an eternal overwatch.
Tor walked briskly up the street, passing by many who were rushing to the tram station. He lived close to the market on this tier, and the swirling smells of roasted meats and baking breads wafted about, making his mouth water. A little fledgling crier shouted headlines of the day, waving about a wrinkled newspaper. The hustle and bustle of the eighth tier was relatively calm compared to those lower in the city, which was certainly more packed. But this was the lifeblood of Stoneanchor: it's humble citizenry.
The local tram terminal was jammed with people going to work, all crowding around the ticket office. The office's stands were all open, attendants frantically doling out coin and the tickets for passage. Shouts and conversation echoed under the tall marble awning, along with the occasional rumble and squealing of machinery. Not in much of a hurry, Tor joined the queue for the common tram. Session started near to eight in the morning, and looking up to a clock hovering above the ticket office, it was just about seven.
While in line, he was surrounded by nervous gryphs and zebs — It was uncommon for a legislator to be in line, doubly so for a lord. Many dropped onto their talons, or bowed before him. Tor couldn't stop everyone from doing what was required by custom, so he simply smiled and nodded at their gestures.
"Bit of a hot day, eh, friends?" Tor asked, flashing a smile. Around him, chuckles rippled through the group that heard him. Almost everyone loosened up, sharing the good mood.
It took a little while, but he was able to get his own ticket, joining a few from the line onboard the tram. Like outside, a multitude of respectful gestures were given to Tor, where he repeated his placating gestures. He scooted through and found a nice seat for him, facing fore.
After the car was stuffed, the engines on the roof charged and rumbled to life. The idle hiss of steam and the shout of attendants sounded muffled through the walls, but overpowered the din inside. The car lurched forward and rolled out onto the tracks.
Its ascent was slow but methodical, traveling between the tiers in good time. As it rose, Tor looked down to the city. From where he was, it was like hanging miles above the earth. But, that was more on Tor's perspective — His stomach lurched at the sight, his ears flopped back and his talons began to shake . He looked to the riveted floor under him, trying to ground himself. His heart accelerated, and his breathing grew quicker. He kept his mind occupied until the car reached the eleventh tier.
He didn't realize he was holding his breath when the tram came to a stop. He exhaled loudly, drawing the attention of his neighbors. Tor smiled weakly, but couldn't hide his phobia for too long. But keeping up appearances, he rose calmly, following the passengers off the car and into the daylight.
Under the sun, Tor shone with a glare, but paled in comparison with the Spire that loomed above. The bleached stone terrace ahead shone heavenly, taking in the whole power of the sun. The buildings were made of limestone, marble and carved stone, majestic palaces of governance. The gardens and artificial ponds were healthy and teeming with life, bordering the hundreds of statues that seemingly were at every corner. The terrace of the eleventh tier was a crown jewel on the head of the Confederacy, and its shine made it a greater majesty.
Tor smiled as he walked down Constitution Boulevard. Clearly the Six want this day to be a memorable one.
The boulevard was wide and separated by a long standing hedge, broken occasionally for the intersections. If the crowd of the eighth tier was nerve-wracking to the casual passersby, then the eleventh tier would cause terrible panic, as the crowd size was three-fold larger. Unlike the majority of the city where carts and wagons were permitted to roll, the eleventh tier restricted traffic to foot, which resulted in a wide wave of beings going to and fro without the worry of a speeding wagon, but ample room to not feel too crowded.
Constitution Boulevard led to a wide stone plaza. A long reflecting pool led to the base of the Spire, stopping just before the great arches that supported the tower. Carved marble statues lined the pool, life-like recreations of famous gryphons from before and during Confederate history. They stood half a head taller than the many hundreds who milled about to work. However, one of these many hundreds accompanied Tor while he admired a stoic looking eagless.
"Tor," Gareth started, eyeing at the statue. "Staring at Scipia again?"
“Gareth, my friend.” Tor nodded to him in greeting. He looked over Gareth's person — bags formed under his eyes, and he slumped over slightly. Aside from the books under one arm, he frequently adjusted a holster under the other. It looked at little too tight for Gareth's slight body.
“You look exhausted," Tor consoled. "How are you this morning?”
Gareth grunted, sliding his tired gaze to Tor. “A little perturbed, to say the least.”
Tor raised a brow. "A shame — It's such a beautiful morning.”
Gareth shrugged his shoulders and waved for Tor to join with him with his tail. They walked slowly past the pool.
“I was a little focused on my work last night.”
“I understand," Tor said. "The zebra trade offer deserves to have another look-over. I had some time with a copy before I went out last evening; Quite the proposition, but, I must confess that I’m a little put off by the whole thing. There's a lot they're asking for — it’s as if their iron reserves have all dried up!”
“Indeed," Gareth nodded weakly. "There are details that deserve the sharp eye of an economic body like the forum." He gave Tor a small smile. "Perhaps the senate's diplomats can give them what for when we're done with it.”
“We would be in crisis were it not for your people, Gareth.” Tor patted his friend on the shoulder, shifting the toweled sword to the other side. "Ah, but I have to say, you missed a beautiful sky last night!"
Gareth smirked. "So jubilant, I see."
“How could I not be? Compared to Stoneanchor, Razorwing hold isn’t as grand on a foggy night. Of course, I am more familiar looking down at your farm, not up.”
Gareth responded with a light chuckle. “Funny how you'd prefer to be down in the fields than up in Ferglyph."
“The Stonetalon Farmstead was my home away from home,” Tor reminded his friend. He cocked a brow with a mischievous grin. "Besides, papa would skin me if he caught me on Ferglyph Tower's roof. Your barn was the next best thing." The two shared a chuckle.
Tor continued: “I must interject another subject, Gareth — I apologize for hitting you a few night ago." Gareth's brow shot up at attention. "I was caught up with the fight. My emotions got the best of me — Not a good excuse, but I'm sorry I did that to you. We shouldn't get physical over these things."
Gareth nodded. "Thank you, Tor" — He looked away briefly — "But now I know how Garacaius Ney felt after you pummeled him."
"Garacaius called you a rat's cunt and broke three of your ribs." Tor chuckled darkly. "Served him right, I thought."
Gareth gave Tor a lighthearted smile, but betrayed it as his brows crinkled. He sighed, a melancholy mood taking him over. Tor stopped and frowned.
"What's the matter?" He asked. Gareth looked away and rubbed his wrist. Tor was familiar with that gesture — he was nervous.
“It’s, um — it's you, Tor.”
Tor cocked his head back, surprised. "Me?"
Gareth sighed, and pushed through his headfeathers with a talon. He then steeled himself with a scowl. “You know what in Tartarus you did, Tor.” He looked around with concern, as if expecting someone to attack. “You’re going to get yourself killed if you carry on with what you’re doing.”
Tor scowled, but quickly softened his features. “You know," he concluded.
“Know?” Gareth chuckled nervously. His brow crooked cockeyed as his voice steeped in sad disappointment. “I was there, on the tram.” Gareth shook his head. “What in the world are you doing, Tor?”
“Being a friend, Gareth.” Tor slowly grew in annoyance, wantonly dismissing Gareth's concern. “Her life is rough and without the goodness of being rich. I only did what I could to share my wealth in some way.”
“A friend?” Gareth scoffed. His eyes grew wide in concern, his beak agape. “As one of yours, I insist that you stop your associations with that... that... wretch!”
Tor turned away from Gareth with a grunt. “I don’t need a lecture about class.”
“If you don’t get one, you’ll be dead! Tor, the Veronian Code isn’t something you can simply ignore! Association with the classes lower than you is punishable.” Gareth pounded fist to palm to emphasize: "Punishable by death if necessary."
“You make it sound like those below us don’t deserve any pity.”
“What I’m saying,” Gareth stressed. “Is that someone that low cannot ever advance higher than her station. You’re just giving her false hope.”
Tor swept the air aside. “We're squandering talents of those we give no help to, Gareth." His demeanor faltered very briefly. If only we did more for them.
“The code clearly states that we cannot have such relations with the lower class. That is what messengers are for.”
“By the Six!” Tor clenched his talons into fists. “Have you even read through the whole code?”
Gareth crossed his arms. “I have,” he said indignantly.
“Then you know it's a flimsy code! It's out to suppress our brethren.”
“Why do you say that?” Gareth cocked his head to the side. “The code is very straightforward: Advancement is crucial to success. As a symbol of your success, you must purge your life of all that was below you. If you associate yourself with aspects of lower status, you are unworthy of said status, and must be executed for such.”
“The Three Corners,” Tor said, stating the title of these tenets.
“Yes!” Gareth exclaimed. “Don’t you see why I’m concerned? You can die for your idiocy!”
“I’ve been pretty good so far — Look where my violations have gotten you!” The two continued their argument for a few moments before being interrupted by an old gryphon. He was a stout and rotund fellow, and his flowing blue forumite banyan didn't help hide the gut hanging over his sword belt. His grip was tight around a sword that hung just above his silver-hilted saber.
“Is this he, Stonetalon?” He interrupted, his voice raspy. “This lord has broken our most sacred of traditions?” Tor glared at Gareth, who shifted his scarlet eyes away.
Gareth gulped: “Yes, Raziel.”
Before Tor could respond, the stocky forum member drew the sword that he was gripping, flashing sharpened steel in the bright morning sun. Both Tor and Gareth backed up, wide-eyed. Raziel pumped his chest out, unfurling his wings to look massive. As intimidating as you want to look, Raziel, Tor noted. You make the mistake of making yourself a bigger target.
“Boy,” Raziel bellowed, pointing his sword at Tor’s throat, “I should kill you where you stand!” Without a second thought, Tor drew his sword, throwing off the towel that guarded it from the elements. It was as long as Raziel's. Tor hovered the sword tip-to-tip. He stood straight, straightened his back paws to face forward, and extended his arms out, creating a rounded shape in front of his chest. Raziel's ears peeled back, realizing that he might have pulled a sword on someone who was very out of his league.
Tor's chest began to bellow with increased airflow. His could feel his pulse lightly quiver the sword. His feathers began to ruffle and his senses grew focused. In the back of his mind, he could hear roars and screams, reminding him of the terrors of the frontier. The menacing head of a horned minotaur flashed on Raziel's face, but Tor resisted a fearful swing. He didn't want to strike a gryphon, especially when a crowd began to form.
Calm down, lad, Tor told himself. He's a gryph. Not a mino. He closed his eyes briefly. One. Two. One. Two...
From the corner of his eyes, he could see Gareth conflicted. He rubbed his wrist with more fury, and his eyes darted from Tor to Raziel.
As moments crawled into seconds, a gentle reprieve graced the two combatants as a tall eagless landed gracefully at Tor’s left. She stood like the statues next to them, and almost the same pale white.
“Raziel,” she said, outstretching an open palm to him. “Put that thing away before you hurt someone.”
“How can I, when your fellow senator has clearly broken the Veronian Code?” Raziel gestured wildly with the sword, occasionally tapping the blades together with a heavy tink.
The eagless looked down to Tor. She was a head taller than him. Smiling, she said casually, “Tor, wonderful to see you again.”
“Indeed, Ariel." Tor creased his brow, confused. “You’re rather calm about all of this.”
“Well, you know us Whitetails: Always the calmest in a typhoon.”
“I don’t give a damn about a stupid typhoon!” Raziel's scowl bent into more creases on his ancient forehead. “Razorwing here has been fraternizing with the lower class!” Around them, the crowd's din rolled in mutterings, surprised or dismissive of the claim.
“Now, now, Raziel,” Ariel rebutted, holding up her talons, palms up. “Let go of your blade. We ‘fraternize’ all the time. Goodness, friend — we’re doing it right now!”
“That’s not the point,” Raziel exclaimed. “We both rule this country! The Code clearly states —”
“I understand what the Code says, Raziel,” Tor interrupted, dropping his sword to his side. “But we are the body that represents the whole of the Confederacy’s populace, we must be lax on the subject. It’s common practice, honestly!”
Raziel scoffed at Tor. “Bah! And I thought it was Gaius Stormbeak who was the fool of the senate. Why his head isn't on a pike is beyond me.”
“I’m sorry,” a familiar voice chimed in. “Did someone mention me?” Gaius emerged from the depths of the crowd surrounding them and closed in on Tor, flanking his other side. Gareth sighed and put his head in a talon. Raziel continued to scowl.
“Not a good time, Gaius,” Tor remarked.
“Oh, nonsense, Tor." Gaius flashed a solid shit eating grin. "When I see a scuffle about to start, I aim to be close to it.”
“I should be cutting you instead of Razorwing here, Stormbeak,” Raziel threatened, pointing his sword at Gaius. “You’re probably the worst offender!”
“I’ve had enough attempts on my life, my dear,” Gaius taunted, grabbing the sword and cleaning his nails with the tip. “You should know that the senate defends their own.” Raziel pulled the sword back, Gaius letting go just in time.
“How dare you!” Disgust oozed from Raziel's words. By this time, the crowd began to grow larger, and started to incorporate members of each house. As the argument further boiled over, the divide grew and grew. When one side rebutted, the crowd grew on that side, and vice versa. Tor was afraid that a fight would break out right there.
Gareth's quietness stood out to Tor. Though concerned about Tor's health before the gathering, Gareth didn't lay out a talon in Tor’s defense. The forum directly quoted Gareth, but he didn't speak a word.
If he's my friend, he should have my back!
From their cries of the violation of the Veronian Code to the horror of a noble talking to a blazed, the argument ran in circles. The forum may have cited Tor and Gaius' fragrant disregard, but Tor could count at least ten such gryphons who did the same thing. It was logical: When one represents the populace, why should one abstain from talking to them?
The crowd's yells echoed everywhere in the plaza, seemingly bringing the the world to a stand still. Tor's body shook while countless voices powered through him, his included. Anything and everything was slung to beat the other side down, from vulgarities to slurs about a mother's beauty. But that shouting came to end when a booming voice quieted the sea of shouts.
“What in the Six is going on here?!” The mob collectively turned to the voice: Maia Highwind stood at one end of the divide. She strode through with her talon resting on her saber, its rubies shining brilliantly on the gold basket hilt. The entirety of the senate fell to all fours, their movement clamoring like a marching brigade.
The forum, in turn, simply backed up, arms crossed and brows furrowed.
“We have an entire nation to rule,” Maia roared, extending her wings. “But, we’re standing here yelling like school fledglings?!” Her sneer scrutinized everyone, piercing straight through the soul. The senatorial side bowed their heads in shame. Silence held this mob together in an uncomfortable embrace with the wind's howl as the only source of sound.
Raziel piped up, his wheezy voice barely above the whistle of the wind. “Consul, don’t you have any clue what your little subordinate has done?” He did his best to challenge Maia, but how his talon shook his sword showed what little strength he had.
Maia replied four-score louder. “Aside from ruffling your feathers, mister Blackstone?" Her eyes pierced him like a harpoon, causing him to shrink. Her clasped black cloak danced gently with the wind, amplifying her stately aura.
She continued: "May I remind you that your side of the Confederacy is pulling the spear from the rack? You think someone’s burning the books every time a senator sneezes.”
“Forgiveness, missus Highwater,” a new voice rose. The mob moved their heads again, this time to a middle-aged tiercel. A blue cape on his shoulder wrestled with the air as if trying to wrestle the majesty from Maia. His talon idly tapped its fingers on the emerald-encrusted silver hilt of a very deadly looking mace.
It was for forum's turn to bow and fall to the ground.
“Tradition has kept us alive all these years," he continued. "It is the glue that keeps our sides from falling apart.”
Maia cross her arms. “I’m sorry if we believe that traditions are guidelines, mister Helgar, not rigid definitions."
“Is now the time to discuss philosophy?" Helgar wagged a finger, tsking. "It was you yourself who said we have more important things to do — Quite the hypocrite.” Maia sighed and nodded, but her face was slanted with annoyance.
Helgar had a reputation of strict adherence to the Code, and demanded every forumite to follow it, which extended to the whole of society. The only reason his rule was challenged was due to the power of the senate.
“You all are dismissed,” Maia sharply ordered. A pregnant pause held everyone together for a moment before the mob started to trickle off. Tor glared at Raziel as he sheathed his weapon with practiced precision. But his heart sank when Raziel embraced Gareth in an old wing. As they turned away, Gareth gave a final apologetic look to Tor.
Tor turned to leave, but Maia put a talon to his shoulder, stopping him. Without a word, they stayed together as the crowd finally dispersed.
“At many times, I respect you for what risks you take, Tor,” Maia said quietly, still scowling. “Other times, I want to beat the tar out of you.” She walked past Tor, motioning to him with her tail. "Come with me."
Before coming along, Tor wrapped his sword with the towel and then fell to his talons, clasping the sword around a wing. He came to Maia's side with his head hanging.
Maia sighed, softening. “Get up, Tor. I’m not here to berate you.” He complied, brushing the dirt from his palms, then adjusting the sword so he held it under his arm again.
“My Consul,” Tor said. “I’m sorry.”
“You should be. You’re valuable in the senate, but I don't want to assign you a guard detail unless it's absolutely necessary. Guarding Gaius alone is already a hassle.”
Tor's ears flopped back while he rubbed his neck. “I know how much of a nuisance Gaius can be, but this is all my fault.”
“You're worth more than Gaius, Tor — While he has the hedonist's life, you have a mind to do what’s right.” Maia smirked. "I don't like admiring that you rock the boat, but I appreciate the conviction."
Tor shook his head, a bashful, lopsided smirk on his beak. "Thank you, ma'am, but, why do we protect him in the first place? I mean — don't get me wrong, I do like my friend being a live and all..."
“He has sway with the plebs," she said simply. "His name is mentioned frequently, be it in a pub or a bazaar. I have a feeling a tiercel like he would bring the brunt of Stoneanchor — nay, the Confederacy — upon everyone's heads if anything happens to him. You, though, are important in another manner.”
“I’m but a humble senator.”
“With many political allies, my friend. I saw the entire senate behind your back. Though Gaius has more with the plebs, he has yet to do anything of your caliber.”
“My uplifting of those from the lower classes?”
Maia smiled, nodding. “Indeed. It garners a wealth of respect from us.”
“I’m surprised it’s taken so long for the forum to figure it out,” Tor remarked, reminiscing back to his thoughts earlier that morning.
“It would’ve been sooner were it not for our undertalonedness, and Gareth. You should thank the Six — Their divine patience has kept his beak shut" — Maia shrugged defeated — "until now.”
“Well, Gareth has unfortunately fallen for the honeyed words of Helgar." Tor's ears flopped back, but a slight smirk grew on his beak. "I have to give it to him, though.”
“What is that, Tor?”
“He’s kept his talons on the Veronian Code for as long as I’ve helped him. I suppose all he needed a good push to fall in line.” Maia's smile matched Tor's melancholy.
Tor wanted to be angry. He wanted to march right up to Gareth's office and give him what for — maybe even beg for his friendship if he had to. Of all the gryphs I knew... Six's breath, how I wish it wasn't him. He exhaled sharply, frustrated. The damnedest thing is, he's in the right — He's following the law, and I'm openly defying it!
Tor and Maia walked silently until they arrived at a small park off from the plaza, tucked in between two large government buildings. The buildings around muffled the din from the rest of the tier, creating a hushed serenity within. Manicured bushes and fountains were arranged deliberately between freshly cut grass, with only the sound of bubbling water and tweeting birds echoing off the walls. It was fresh and earthy compared to the carved stone that made up the rest of the city.
They approached a huge bronze statue, painstakingly polished down to the deepest crannies. It was of two gryphons sharing a firm talonshake, wearing the ornate armors of the pre-Confederate past. Tor could recognize one immediately has his ancestor: Alana Razorwing. She was powerful in her brigandine-plate combination, with her off-talon caressing a saber that mirrored the one hanging from Maia's belt. The tiercel opposite of Alana was Baldric Logger. His face was worn from years of combat. Hanging near the bottom of the jinbaori on his shoulders was Helgar's mace.
“If only the founders were here to witness our petty squabbling." Maia sighed. "I can only imagine what they'd say about it."
Tor's eyes traced the happy expressions of the two great gryphons. “After the fifteen years of war they had to endure, I can only assume they'd bonk us on the beak and tell us to quit fussing.” He shook his head. "Goodness, I hope nothing worse comes from this!"
Maia chuckled. "Schoolboy fantasies! Dear Tor, such a fight would be impossible.” Maia puffed out her chest in pride. “We can move past these transgressions, it will only take time — We’ve become gryphons who use words to change our world, not weapons.”
Tor cleared his throat loudly, gesturing to the sword under his arm. Maia shifted her emerald eyes to avoid the dulled weapon, ignoring the irony.
“That point aside,” she grumbled, deflating her chest. “I won’t let such matters interrupt the status quo.” She put her talons together in thought, bouncing each digit off on another in a methodical fashion. "Hmm, perhaps..." She droned off.
While her gears turned, Tor kept his eyes on the statue. Baldric’s Day, a day celebrating Baldric Logger's efforts in the Gryphon Resurgence, was celebrated a month prior. Unlike the more stately Alana, who was better a diplomat than warrior, Baldric was unparalleled in his military prowess. He founded the Confederate military and its many traditions can be pinpointed to his army, simply known as the Twelve Thousand.
“In an hour, I’m meeting with Celestia,” Maia announced, breaking Tor’s thoughts. “I want you to be there in my place.”
“Me?” Tor asked, eyes widened.
“Yes, Tor. It’s to ensure some security for you." She tapped her fingers together as she spoke. "No one’s willing to risk your life under the nose of the most powerful being in the world. Due to the circumstances, I believe meeting as soon as possible would be much more fitting.”
Tor blinked, not due to her plan, but — “Me? In front of Celestia?”
Maia chuckled. "She's quite lovely once you get to know her! I think after the showcase this afternoon, we might have a lot more between us."
"Surely you don't want a fool like myself, ma'am — I'm not the right sort."
"Nonsense, Tor! You're perfect for the job. You're merely showing her around, seeing the sights... You'll have my schedule, there won't be a worry in the world!"
"Maia, surely I can go somewhere else," Tor said, dropping his formality. "I'm a blathering dolt compared to you."
She jut up a soft talon. "Need I remind you of the Karelia Crisis two winters ago? If you weren't there as my council and didn't have the relationship with the local Suomi gryphons you had, we would probably have seen a lot of bloodshed." She smiled. "If you can keep a border dispute from boiling into something like with the mino, escorting Princess Celestia will be like spearing fish in a barrel."
"Plus," she added, "It gives me time to keep Helgar and his friends from sliding a dagger between your ribs."
Tor shrugged, accepting her plea. “Well, when you say it that way..." He smirked. "What can you tell me about this showcase?"
“Not too much, but I know that Gareth had an example of it under his arm.”
“Yes, I saw that," Tor nodded. "I didn't catch a good look at it.”
“It looks like a crossbow without it’s lathe.”
Tor recalled the pamphlet from the previous morning. “That?!" He twisted is face in dramatic disbelief. "Surely we can do something better.”
“I’m told that it’ll put this" — she pat the hilt of Tor’s blunt sword — “out of commission.”
“I’m not too sure about that,” Tor challenged.
“Your mind will be changed, Tor,” She remarked. "It's a sight to behold — I can't even begin to describe it. There's a reason forum has their eyes on it." Maia snapped her fingers. Two guards, dressed in senatorial black, emerged from behind the statue and flanked Maia. Maia handed a folded parcel to the guard on her left, who accepted it with a nod.
Tor began, “Maia, please, I'm sure I'll be alright—”
“Just a little bit of insurance.” Maia smiled, patting Tor's shoulder. “Besides, why would I want you to die between now and tomorrow?” Tor opened his beak to respond, but shut it, arguing being a moot point.
Maia dismissed him with a wave. “On Celestia’s ship, my friend. Meet her there, quickly!” Looking down at Tor's talons, she grabbed the sword and eased it from his grip. “I don’t think the princess would appreciate you walking around with this.”
Tor left the park, and the guards joined him with eerie silence. Walking back to the Spire, the feathers on the back of his head stuck up while he grew paranoid of the occasional glance his way. Some smiled at him, and others shook their heads. It's like I have a bloody bullseye painted on my chest, he thought glumly. I'd rather be facing down a minotaur than endure such scrutiny!
The closer he approached the tower, the clearer he could see the carvings that ran up its walls. They formed patterns indicative of many other gryphon styles, reminiscent of flowing rivers, twisting vines and solemn orchids. Between these patterns bore engravings of history, from before the old republic to the dawn of the Confederacy centuries later. It was a monument to gryphon kind and its achievements.
Before entering the grand entrance of the Spire, he looked up, identifying the airship docking platforms. High above him were plenty of ships of many sizes, but Celestia' vessel was easy to see. Even from as far down as he was, he could see the winking shine of gold that glared from the underside of its hull. I understand having a national color, but that's just a thumb in the eye.
He passed through the grand archway of the Spire, its ornate carvings just as beautiful as the ones spiraling up the tower. The rest of the spire was mostly made of stone, but the arch was pure marble. It rose high above Tor, reaching the second story of the tower. Hanging from its apex was a large, swinging iron lamp, with a small flame burning within. It represented the ever present flame of democracy, and were it ever to be snuffed out, stories said, it would spell doom.
Tor brushed at the thought. Just a schoolboy fantasy...
Tor made good time to the elevators that surged up the tower, strange steel contraptions that conflicted with the rest of the warm interior, hissing and gently squealing between floors. The same aesthetic of carved stone was a strange juxtaposition to it, which incorporated balustrade railing to further amplify the opulence the capital building exerted. Polished marble floors reflected the Spire with immaculate sheen, augmented with borders of custom tile.
After Tor stepped inside a cab, the elevator rose with a surge as its electric motor hummed to life. Packed in a good crowd, he practiced his phobia coping measures by looking at the floor again, keeping his nervousness under wraps.
His destination was the fifth story, the top of the Spire's converted airport. What was once another level of offices and archives, it was rightly assumed aircraft would need to find a place to stay after they grew in popularity. It was hastily converted some fifty years prior, ten years after the first airships took off. Though not as packed as the airport on the other side of Stoneanchor, it did have enough seating to look like it.
Where Celestia's ship docked wasn't hard to find; its gate was the only one on this level that had a security detail — Not to mention it was crawling with gold-clad royal guards. They mulled about and kept to their official duties, keeping an eye on the passersby and chatting among themselves. As Tor and his guards approached, the ponies grew stiff at attention, their lances clattering against their barding.
A unicorn guard in particular approached Tor, who had a striking blue plume rise from his chamfrom and down the length of his criniere, ousting him as their commander. The caparison under his barding was the same color, and hung low to give the impression that instead of trotting, the guards glided across the floor.
“That’s far enough, sir,” the commander announced, holding up an armored hoof through the break in his caparison. “This terminal is only allowing guests of the Princess. If you would state your business?” Tor smiled at this guard, who was doing his job excellently. He was joined by two other guards at his sides.
“I am Lord Tor Razorwing,” Tor replied. His guard handed Maia's package to Tor, who then handed it over to the commander. "I've been sent here on behalf of the consul — she sends her regards, but she has been indisposed due to internal matters." The pony commander flipped open the leather package and inspected it carefully with his glowing magic. Tor was enamored at the dexterity this pony had, expertly flipping through pages with such ease.
And without talons, no less!
The guard grunted as he neatly folded the parcel back together, tying the leather thongs into a simple bow. “A pleasure, My Lord," he replied, hovering the package back to Tor.
As he touched the parcel, Tor briefly interacted with the aura of magic holding it up. His talon brushed into a sensation of simultaneous hot and cold, causing his whole arm to grow hazy, as if he had been resting on it for too long. He shivered at the feeling, causing his whole body to stand on edge. His feathers puffed out, his fur became gooseflesh.
So this is how it feels! He nearly yelled it — it was a feeling he could barely comprehend. The magic was brief, and his body returned to how it was in a matter of moments. The pony commander simply smirked.
“Apologies, My Lord,” he said. "It's not serious, however. It's just a temporary feeling when you touch arcane. It's a bit wilder when you touch the raw magics, though. Very crazy."
Tor exhaled, shivering again. "Goodness, sir. You could make money just for selling that sensation." They laughed while Tor regained his wits. Tor then gestured ahead with an outstretched talon."Shall we continue, commander?"
The commander nodded. "Come with me, sir."
Tor was led through a hallway that once held spaces for open doors, indicated by alcoves now covered in stone. In place of the old doors, carved busts now sat, detailing many old Confederate politicians from years past. Their foot and hoofsteps clicked and echoed through, bouncing down the corridor. It was like an anticipation for emerging on the other end, as the morning sun shone bright, obfuscating the outside.
Tor held a talon up to shield himself from the glare, which almost caused him to bump into the commander. Upon exiting the gate, more pony guards stationed themselves outside, lining the terminal to Celestia's yacht. Banners fluttered from their lances, kept taut from the gusts so high up. The dull din of air traffic was all around, from the idle buzz of engines to the sharp whine of air breaks, isolating this part of the tower from the world.
“You have an impressive entourage, commander” Tor nodded to a passing guard, who returned the gesture.
The commander smiled. “It is, My Lord. We are the best of the best." His voice was proud. "He's not here, but Captain Arondight gives us some of the most rigorous training regimens — We're ready for anything."
“I see,“ Tor noted, keeping an eye on the troops. They were living statues, only their eyes trailing Tor.
Tor continued: "You traveled well, I hope?”
“Like flying on a cloud, sir. Apollonia is one of the fastest ships in the world. We crossed the Celestial Sea in three weeks, you can check our records!”
“I see, very impressive.” This lad should've been in the navy with his enthusiasm.
They rounded a corner on the platform. The wind was a little harder here, and Tor's banyan wrestled the air. Instinctively, Tor whiteknuckled the nearest rail, hoping he wouldn't bend it with his grip. But even with his fear of heights, he couldn't stop his beak from dropping at the visage of Apollonia. It was the embodiment of the sun, with golds and brasses trimming it from bow to stern. The hull was a sleek clipper shape with a raised quarterdeck, all cherry wood. Its balloon was sleek in shape and pearly white, its glare almost smothering the painted sun on its sides.
On the weather deck, deck ponies went about their business, and as the party boarded, drew their attention briefly. It was a little odd seeing a foreign party joined with guards.
“Welcome to the Apollonia, My Lord,” the commander announced as they centered themselves on the deck. “I hope you and the princess have a wonderful time.”
“I will do what I can, sir,” Tor replied. “I’m sure I’m in capable… what do you say? Hooves?”
The commander chuckled. “Of course, My Lord.” He bowed and took his leave, and approached a pair of guards guarding a hatch on the quarterdeck. The commander stepped inside.
Expecting the royal herself to emerge at any moment, Tor stuffed his arms into his sleeves, a vizir's pose. After a few more minutes, he changed his pose, more dashing and heroic. He rested his left talon on his golden hilt, while letting the other hang off his belt, hooking the thumb over the leather. He swore he heard one of the deck ponies snickering.
The hatch swung open, and Tor tensed, staring dead towards the doorway. First, the commander emerged. Tor’s breathing accelerated, anticipating the first steps of Celestia walking out the door. However, seeing a silhouette of another pony only made him more anxious.
Celestia was powerful, and respected the world over — Tor had is reservations about her, and how she handled the world stage, but he generally kept these thoughts to himself. But I can't simply ignore the fact that she'sright here!
In anticlimax, it wasn't Celestia but Golden Sunshine. Her little braids bounced while she approached Tor with a sour look. She caught herself and flashed a smile to Tor, who nodded back. She kept quiet as she took to his side, doing her best to keep her scowl from growing again.
Before Tor could speak a word to the mare, an entourage of gold emerged from the belly of the ship. A small team of attendants and guards filed out, lining the deck in Tor's direction. Tor's ears flopped back, unsure how to feel. But he couldn't get a thought in as a grand visage emerged from within, power and magnificence beaming from her like rays of sunshine. Tor’s eyes were glued to her, with her technicolored mane leading a regal, alabaster alicorn: Princess Celestia.