(Translated from the original Griffon by Musty Pages, a distant relative of Commander Hurricane. Included in the Book of Tradition by Nocturne Council vote on 678 A.E.)
The Song of the Griffons
Hear, oh my children, of the shame of the griffons
Long ago, when the race of griffons were few and young, we soared above the fertile valleys and farms of the pony nation. Our wings were strong as mountains, and the pegasi rose into the skies with us, soaring almost as high as our own kind. We lived in harmony with the pony races, watching over them from our high nests, and all was good. Or so it seemed.
As our ancestors soared in the frigid skies, they could hear the voices of the world calling to them, and the higher they flew, the louder one voice sounded. It told them of their destiny, how they were greater than the ponies who flew with them, and as we listened, the race of griffons grew even more powerful. We built fortresses in the sky to raise ourselves even farther from the ground, we lifted our bodies even closer to the sun to feel its warmth against our feathers even as our hearts grew colder and more distant. Some of our kind who soared higher and faster than all the rest grew proud, and claimed the voice had told them of a way they could soar even higher.
The voice spoke to them of the glory of blood and the energy of the kill, but not of the animals of the ground and birds of the sky. It spoke of the power they would gain from the blood of the ponies, and one fateful day, a griffon listened. He struck down a pony and ate from it, giving him the power to soar higher and faster than any other griffon, but at a terrible price. While he soared far above the rest of the griffons, his heart grew cold and cruel. More of our kind yielded to the wicked voice, and the pale griffons soared even higher above the ground, looking down upon both griffon and pony with contempt. As their ranks grew, the weather became colder, and the snow began to fall. The once fertile land grew dark and empty, and the claws of the pale griffons sought out our own kind for their prey.
While the rest of the ponies fled the formerly fertile valley, the pride of the griffons would not be broken that easily. We fought the beasts, now called Wendigo, and as the snow piled high outside our mountain caves, the numbers of our kind dwindled.
We were lost, being consumed by our own folly. The few of us who remained gathered together in the last mountain stronghold, determined to meet our fate with claws and beak towards the enemy, and we waited for the end.
The Wendigo circled our fortress, patient as the blowing snow, for they knew our kind would soon be without food, and in our desperation, we would be forced to eat our own and add to their ranks. They screamed in endless rage as they flew by, taking the forms of their victims in cruel mockery of our decision.
All was lost, until we heard the distant notes of a trumpet.
The clouds parted, and the Pegasi of Equestria filled the frozen skies in numbers we had never seen before. They flew to our aid, rescuing the fathers and parents of the ones who had slain their young. Pegasi fell in vast numbers protecting our fledglings as we evacuated what we thought would become our tomb, and at their head flew Commander Hurricane. He was a lion in battle, faster than anything with wings, and where he flew, the sky shattered. Wendigo fell beneath his flashing hooves as we fled, broken into pieces and dropping through the clouds. He was struck many times in the battle, but the golden armor of their kind protected him, forged by earth ponies and enchanted by unicorns, it turned uncounted blows as we fled to the warm lands of Equestria where they dared not follow.
We gathered, the poor bedraggled remnants of a once proud race, prepared to accept our punishment for unleashing this disaster upon the world. Our leaders humbled themselves before the powerful pegasi, and our sole surviving golden-eyed king abased himself at the hooves of their Commander Hurricane.
But the noble pegasus would have none of that. He lifted our king to stand by his side and asked that we might once again fly through the sky with his kind as equals. The king was baffled. Why would the pegasi forgive our crimes against them? Why would they risk their lives to save us? He asked, but received only these words in response:
What else could we do?
In his wisdom, the king withdrew from the pony lands, taking the mountain tops and crags for our homes while the pegasi continued to dwell within the clouds. He decreed that Griffons and Ponies should remain separated so that the peace would be sustained, and the temptation to soar above them would not again threaten the lives of pony or griffon.
We were not ready to live with the ponies. If we tried, the same conflict would happen again, only this time our weakness would destroy us all. For centuries since, our kind has ridden the skies, soaring high in the clouds, far from ponykind. Someday we may become strong enough to be worthy of the gift that Commander Hurricane gave to our ancient king, and that every griffon king since has acknowledged.
Let the wings of our ancestors be our guides, may the winds whisper only words of harmony to our ears, and may we someday be worthy of the gift of life that was once bestowed upon our race.