They never got used to the cold.
How many years has it been since they have set this bastion, up there where none of their kind were ever welcome? I could probably say, if I cared to remember. If I could remember. Their own proper dates had been erased, and then forgotten by their same own historicians, but we picked the trash up, as it seems they think we are designed to do. I have handled enough documents no equine eye of theirs should ever have met with to earn the right not to remember. Or rather, not care. Realistically, the main thing to care about is the contract. Simple steps. But to put them into action, I have to tear through the hive first. The downward-spiraling hive of ponies.
Ponies. Oblique species. They drive you to rhethorical questions. Sometimes I wonder, would what they do make sense if I shared the physiology and mind? A repulsing thought, but nonetheless, it is one that I find myself pondering often. Do they see sense in what they do?
I have observed them for more of my life than I wish to recall, and I am still not certain. By most means, I am an expert. My job had always been to look more at the other nations, the ponies, the caprics, the mer, the taurs, than my own. At least, it used to be that. I have built a career of orchestrating actions in other governments and militaries to our own benefit. Maybe a penbeak, yes, but an expert regardless. Even with how… a row of events has negated most of that, and a number of different perspectives has been opened, I am still not certain of what they think they are doing.
Although, there is one thing which is for certain. Here, where my kind belongs, the snowy mountains and all that is east and north - and even with that, wishes not to venture - they never got used to the cold.
The conditions here I can only complain about, and the one recipient would be myself. A poor state of affairs, to be sure. A patch of withered forest atop a mountain foot, north of the pony hive. They don’t check here - nothing to check for. The things they have to fear here, in the frozen barrens, don’t skulk in the trees. I do, though. The sun may burn my eyes, and the snow, melting should I stand on a patch too long, may give me skin rash, but I remain, and do so unnoticed. The most I have to fear is that a bored guard notices that patches of thorns have gone missing. Don’t like thorns. Weeded them out.
It’s cold here, of course. Not because their sun doesn’t quite reach, no, we all have their ancient history to thank for the intermittent frost. The North is Frozen for a reason. Shine their sun at it all they want, it will never welcome them in, contrary to what they might believe. All it does is make my life more difficult. Shimmering behind grey clouds, it’s tolerable - glaring at each single snowdrop, and reflecting off their surface, it’s not. Direct sunlight. Not good. Can’t afford a retreat, either, when that happens - always have to look for incoming packages. Their way of going around it. The North is Frozen for a reason, and ponies have spread all over the planet for a number of even better ones. Among them, mild inventiveness and excessive resources.
They never got used to the cold - they built themselves a heater of a city with which to settle down and spread their ludicrosity on the frozen ground. Pierce Heaven. Never too humble. Should be glad it’s not another of those idiotic sort of names, like Canterlot, for example. I fail to see how they take themselves seriously with that for a capital.
Admirable in how dedicated the waste of material is, overall. From how it looks, it seems like they’ve burrowed out an entire mountain. I can’t tell - it may just be their attraction to making things look natural by design. This is their mountain spiral bastion of entry between the forgotten, cold, unwelcoming regions, and their sacred, golden calf of an empire Equestria. Blends almost directly into its neighboring comrades, one would struggle to tell it apart from the others quickly. Ponies do hide well, they have to be given that. A border city between the great unknown, the winged, beaked known, and that which, by no good logic, should even be standing at this moment. By which one should reasonably mean their Equestrian realm.
But even if they stay hidden in their obscurely engineered artificial heat, they still can’t get used to the cold. I have. It took me time, but I have gotten used to the cold.
Several months of having set up camp in the dead tundra region, where the sun blasts your eyes during the day and the blizzard rips your pelage during the night, and I persist still. I like to think that it is more due to the overall better avian physiology than contract causes, although that is a presumptious thought. The mountains of the Empire are one thing. The Frozen North, where few go by casual choice, is another.
We don’t go to the Frozen North unless we have to, ponies never went to the Frozen North until they spited other ponies, and ended up in effective exile. Both of our militaries went to the Frozen North for a hushed vigil over each other and whatever may emerge from the dark cold, even if all there has to be is the ruins of a defunct empire. Varying causes. All of them inapplicable.
I went to the Frozen North because I had a contract to fulfill, and a grudge to settle. Not a good start of anyone’s story. Not unique, either. Grudges bring many beings to extremes - be they extremes on the map, or in action. I shouldn’t assume I’m too special. Many come here looking for those who think noone shall follow. Matter of contract, matter of choice.
Good thing my choice is fueled well enough. Even if not for the employers, if I could have helped it, I would have been here. I could have been stalking the evergreens of the haunted forest south of the pony capital, or been infiltrating the seaside trade centers. Both of them are better than the bitter, Frozen North. But I knew whose name to start with, and the convenience of my benefactors aids in the matter. Matter of time, now. Nothing more. Time and cold.
You can hardly tell if you look at the metal top that tears up the frozen ground, but there is a special someone even in that near-literal dump of a city. Someone worthy of my having conceded my life, my career, my Queen, and however many things. Not for any benevolent reason, not at all.
He took all that from me. And since he has none of that for himself, his mangled body will suffice just fine for both me and my authorities.
To myself, I should admit, I barely got used to the rage. Perhaps, I simply burnt out with time. Perhaps, my mind just wants it over with, to slip into the quad-legged hive, and end this travesty. Start actual work. Maybe then, things will feel like I am back by the Queen’s side, and the Special Services are still in operation under my command, and the only other living things in vicnity are not Equestrian-speaking and quadrupedal.
Or maybe, right now, I’m just nagging at the past. Took long to get used to the new way of things, perhaps, never truly did. Old job, old life… old body. All things considered, one does not get used to a hook for a hand easily. One does not get used to a rough set of scarring on their cheek quickly. One does not get used to wings that had all but fused together, and only rely on metal plates to remain unbroken without much of a hitch. Ugly. Deformed. Transformed.
Irrelevant. Even if I still had all four limbs, and even if I still could show most of my head, they would all just stare and babble in their rip-off language. It should matter more what I got in exchange. It should matter more what I can do now. But in the end, it ends up mattering who caused it all. Either sentimentality, or outright blinding rage. Vicious cycle.
As long as it keeps me up in my watch over the border city, it should suffice. Work is still work. Simple steps. Had more complicated tasks than this.
Infiltrate the hive. Gain intel. Locate target. Eliminate. There are complications, of course, and key points. Always are.
They never got used to the cold. Main point. They need to make repairs, keep their shields up, maintain heat, supply provisions. Train or trade, they have to deliver that to the city. No way to keep the improbably high population intact otherwise, no way that I am aware of. Surprisingly few deliveries for that. Not sure why. But one comes in every week, exactly from the location that I had set camp up in. A persistent ticket. Should be more than weekly, but isn’t. Perplexing. Still, sufficient enough.
Not long till the next cart arrives. Pierce Heaven is far enough away to make the leap, stay unnoticed. Proceed with infiltration after all three searches. As per usual. If protocol gets changed or otherwise interrupted, eliminate the guards. Not like there is any shortage of ponies in the city. Stealthy enough not to raise an alarm. No big issue. Again, sufficient enough. A lot of inefficient hassling, yes, but still, sufficient. Simply complicated.
And who would have known that ponies could make these steps so difficult. Ponies, of all things. What could they do, harmless four-legged creatures? The “who” in question would be myself.
Basile Corvine, ex-head of the Griffon Empire Special Services, and ex-aide of the Queen Herself, knows what to make of ponies better than most. In and out. Literally and figuratively.
And every week, he is one step closer to getting to the goal.
Infiltrate the hive, check. And stop talking to yourself in third person. Slippery slope.
Sturdy constructions, their supply carts. One could even compliment the equine engineers on the design. Too bad the designs were most likely stolen - not from us, of course, but if I had to make a call, I’d say the caprics. The goats do make these endurant frames, they just lack the intelligence to make them work half the time, or trade them off to someone who can make them work properly. Ponies… Their exact style to steal and call it their own.
Whoever made them, they can definitely take a griffon landing right on top of them after a twelve meter drop. Would have been easier with wings and four limbs, but you work out techniques when you have to.
Just a few seconds pass, and starts the most tedious part of my entry. The world refuses to move at normal speed, and I cross the metal plating, dropping to the side of the cart, and then lodging the hook firmly enough in a particular spot around the axes to remain attached. I could say that I make a pirhouette and maneuver around athletically in less than a few seconds, slipping then precisely into a perfect fit of a gap to remain concealed, but… That is one thing I have to thank all those recent events for. Less grandeur. More action. Besides, I am far too old to really have pulled it all off as well as that.
They take dreadfully long to inspect. In frankness, it is funny. They have all these devices that not even I have seen in their own secret documents, devices that clearly should be doing something of impact… but they take upwards of twenty minutes, and find nothing. They fail to find a large, old, washed up griffon out on a hunt. I saw them look in the lower compartment even. I looked them straight into the eyes, through the helmets they wear to ward off the cold, and still they’re blind to me. I tell them in my mind that they have nothing to find, and they find nothing. I wish it remained entertaining the tenth time through… or which time is it?
I’ve been here more often than I really should have. Simple steps. Infiltrate the hive, check. Gain intel… more complicated than necessary.
It is absurd, but ponies really do seem to all be the same, almost. Easy to blend into the crowd. I pass through the supply reception maintenance shafts, and often times, I would even see his face on their own wanted posters. Assumed it to be a delusion first, but then, with some prodding, it turned out that even in Equestria, the only way anyone wanted him was dead. How hard would it be to find a pony that has managed to set others off on him?
Quite, as time went to show.
Problem one is that the intel has zero reliability. Ponies. Stupid ponies. Most don’t even speak either Griffon, and that’s with how two thirds of their language are stolen from High and Low. I can converse on a communicable level, but just listening to them makes me feel sick. And they always babble when you have them against the wall. Wouldn’t have been a problem if they would speak otherwise. Have to find those who at least speak Griffon. Actual griffons… out of comission. Contract matters. Sometimes inconvenient.
Problem two is that this is a border city. Takes time getting used to it. I’m more acquainted with Canterlot and the like, their ridiculous nobles and their pretend-elegant architecture. A pony military settlement, though… That was something else. Avoid certain personnel, know the streets, and stay out of the searchlights. No papers, no entry. That’s the basics, that’s what concerns me. Had it been a regular city, blending in would have been a breeze. As is, I keep to the shadows, the back alleys.
Problem three is that he is not an idiot. Would like to believe that. Would be gravely mistaken. He may be a lot of things, and few of them good, but an idiot isn’t one of them. Even when we worked together, I couldn’t recall a tenser knot of paranoia incarnate. I could always tell what he planned on, of course. And still, the outcome goes to show. The bastard broke my wings, tore up my face, chopped off my hand with my own sword, stabbed me in the gut half a dozen times, and then kicked me off a mountain slope. My congratulations to him. It wasn’t enough.
But that’s his problem. My problem is the lasting spiral of heat, artificial light, concealing darkness, and ponies. I would much prefer a haystack and a needle. You at least know what you’re looking for. Here… Here, you keep watch, and see what you find. Few constants. Many variables.
Alley into alley, the shadows take me well enough. We’re acquainted by now. I slip unnoticed, with all my bulk, and even direct passerbies act if there’s only the wind. As long as they don’t see me, I am free to roam the darker corners. If they do…
If they do, that is mostly because they gather in spaces so tight I can no longer pass. Most of the time, I just climb over. Still fit enough for that, even with wings weighing me down - sometimes, though… Just can’t be asked to make the effort. Alternatively, there may as well not be any buildings tall enough. Hard to fit something truly significant into much of a mountain, even one as big as Pierce Heaven.
Ponies are easy to shrug off. Typical alley scum, brigands and other marginals, those either run off or in once they see the shadow step in. Neither works very well. Guards, regular patrol, they are worse. Armed better than most schematics would indicate ponies can technically be. Pit them in an imaginary battle with someone from the gendarmerie, and it’d only take two of those to take a single griffon. Four times the improvement.
These are simple, still. They may flash their lights - shoulder-mounted, like most other gadgets of theirs - but they don’t generally get to react should they see me. Downwards of five guards at once aren’t a problem. The plating is heavy, and surprisingly flexible, but the hook isn’t just for show. We are natural predators, and they aren’t natural warriors. There’s always a weak spot. Directly underneath the neck works most times. Quick, and quiet, unless I get sloppy. The clang would have been a problem, but the material… I have to give it to them, it’s rather light for how protective it is. Little to no sound on heavy impact. Almost like plastic. Good ponies. Problematic at first, of course, but with some practice, these patrols can be scaled on autopilot. Time best spent planning.
Curfew hours are worse. Still can’t figure out what the schedule is. Nothing adds up, not yet. All there is on the streets during curfew is guards, strays, the brave, and whatever makes those screams in the dark. Even I don’t know what that is. Don’t care much, either. He wouldn’t come close to something like that, he isn’t suicidal. Neither am I, so I sit it out.
Guard towers, in a twist of irony, get virtually abandoned. Corner spots? Suppose so. Maps and communications aren’t too useful, I already have all I need, but at least you can spend some time with creatures that are remotely tolerable. Guard dogs, good breeds, stolen from us, of course. They whine and growl, but there’s not much of a place to go, I always seal the door. Takes a while to talk sense into them. Pays off in the end, sometimes. More eyes. Some help during a patrol. They know who’s better. Smart creatures. Surprised ponies even came to them, with their “ingenuity” I’d expect kittens.
The worst thing that can happen, though, is if it’s that kind of curfew. I don’t like that kind of curfew. The middle and top levels of the city, the ones you have to go through to get to where the intel skuls, they get shut off completely. Not the shafts and shadows, of course, so I get by, but I don’t know what happens to the ones that remain inside. Never expected that from ponies. They just solidify the mountain back up again from the looks of things.
No light from the lamps at the top, or the forges to the sides, nothing but those eerie green flashes in corners that shouldn’t even have lights. That kind of curfew is when those screams get bad. I’m not sure what can make them - I’ve heard my fair share of screams, these don’t fit.
The worst part, though, is the patrols. You have to work to get around them when these are out. Tell them by the lights. Really bright, blinding bright, no other reason to turn them up so hard. Different equipment, too. A lot lighter. Masks. Ponies, still, but hard ones - a few have seen me, even lead a chase. Must be the lights. Others don’t see me unless they stare and I look straight at them - these can tell just fine. They fight well, too. Sustained a few burns from the horned ones, and the pegasi have some flight in them. The most abnormal thing by far is how quiet they are - no orders, no taunts, nothing, just breaths and grunts. The insignia lists them as the “PHPD Paracriminal Division”. Whatever the ponies got into here up North, it’s nothing good.
So it’s best if I do hurry. I need to affirm the kill. Both for myself, and for the contract’s sake. If something tears him apart without my notice, that won’t be good. I believe in him, though. I’m hard to kill, I’m hard to get rid of, I’m a pain in the neck. And he killed me once. No tricks, nothing, clean fight - used to tell myself that magic didn’t count, but that’s just an excuse. Own up to it. Sure, he can tear my hand off with his mind. I can crush his skull with what’s left of my hand. Fair.
It’s funny that whatever he thinks, it’s for the worse. If I’m dead to him, then he wouldn’t expect me. If he thinks I’m alive, then he’s definitely not had sleep in a very long time. I’m not the biggest problem he has. No. He has a talent for that. There was a reason why he ran to the Empire, after all.
And now we are both running from it. How have things changed. Not much, when you think about it. It’s just that I scale the insides of a prehistoric mountain, navigating the pony maze, and looking for that special someone there where even a pony may lose one of their own. Different outlook now. Not just office work and field showings. Action. Him… I wouldn’t analyze him much. Tried to, didn’t work. Head is bald enough as it is. Doesn’t matter.
What matters is that this day is not one of those days, and neither is it a curfew. Quiet plaza, calm alleys, mild syndicate squabbles, small vandal movements, eerie flashes staring at my back when I know they can’t be there. Level after level, unnoticed. Or, well… not for long. Strict, decided, automatic. Efficient. Shadow to shadow, roof to roof, sneak one away, disperse a group, next spiral. Easy when you get used to it. Not much in terms of creativity.
I would, at times, stop and leave a mark on a wall. No real system. Just scrape out a symbol we would both know, using that which he so generously let me install. Solid metal on that hook, pierces even military structures. Moral warfare. Wouldn’t know if he ever saw them. Noone else would think much. If he would, though, he’d get scared. Fifty-fifty. Scared means paranoid, even more paranoid than normal - that means prepared. But also tired. I’ve tried him prepared and fine. Didn’t work. So that’s vandalism for the common goal. At least I’ve assumed that, but ponies do bring a random element into the system.
Marked a shop and an apartment building today, despite the developments. Just one level. Not much time, not today. Slightly special today. The steps are simple, yes, but the execution is lacking - so I’ve been working on fixing that. Intel has always been a problem. And common vandalism may have been a solution. Someone has found a mark. Not him. Left me a message.
I guess we have a common enemy. Or maybe he has degraded to trying an ambush. Not expecting much. But who knows? Maybe I’ll move down to the other names. Don’t want to look at his anymore. Besides, I’ve got some celebrities there.
Close to a kilometer down the mountain, and they have a newspaper agency in there. I would theorize how a griffon would have planned that out, but that train of thought stops at the mountain. Just the idea itself is pony essence in a nutshell. Be everywhere. Rule everything. Make precisely no sense while doing so.
Ask myself sometimes what all those buildings are for. Do they really house so many in the mountain? What for? Can’t find much time to stalk. Distractions. Still, the answer escapes. Probably for the best. I’m here on business.
My contact appears to be the same. Left an inconspicuous folder next to a sign. Would have checked it out regardless, but that sign was on the roof of a tavern. You don’t go on tavern roofs and drop documents. Especially not documents on the Griffon Empire Special Services. Would have assumed that he was threatening me - still am, actually. Prepared for a fight if so. Scanned the area well enough. Won’t be like last time. I’m keeping my sword hand this time. Hook hand, that is.
Lone street. Dark building. Out of comission for the moment, tape on the doors. One soul within, probably an unlucky night guard. Take note of that. It’s been sizzling for a bit now.
Only source of light is a lamp in the middle of a curving road. Magical lights at the top off. Not simulating daylight anymore. Must be night outside. Why bother? Wouldn’t know.
Know that the lamp shouldn’t be working. Others aren’t, this one is too bright. Fixed recently. Suspicious. Just for me? Probably.
Few small buildings to the side, good patches of dark. No real danger. If all else fails, I’m not clay, either.
“Cherchez-vous quelqu'un?” I ask the dark if it’s looking for much. High Griffon, out of principle. Whoever this is, I’m not stooping down to their level. Call it a quirk. It is one.
See him close to a minute before he speaks up. Suspected something like that. No, not him. Pegasus pony, short mane, relatively short face. Patch of dark on his muzzle. Almost like a cow. Vest and tie. Looks stupid. Scales a short building, looked like a speck behind the covers, but enough to be noticed. Stare at him as he walks up. He knows, I know, neither are surrendering ground. Good pony.
“Yeah,” he answers, having stepped into the light. Brave little pony. Probably wanted me to go first. We all want a lot of things.
“Le temps est d'or,” I point out. The pegasus seems to know High Griffon well enough to get my meaning. Gold. The main thing’s dropped. He would know what I mean. If he’s worth my time, he would.
“Eh, well… kind of a…” he struggles to think, looking promising enough, “...lock, when you, you know… aren’t speaking Equestrian. Kinda hard to ask for directions. You understand Equestrian, don’t you?”
“I don’th thpeakh verhy vhell,” I answer with a thick accent. Probably sounds fake. Hard to talk as it is. Beak isn’t the same as it used to be. Griffon is easier, but not by much.
He notices. Has to be the light - he looks at my face and his eyes get even bigger for a moment. I close it, but he reels back regardless.
“Okay… So, you understand. That’s… that’s all I need,” he scuttles about, pulling a few papers out, and throwing them into the dark.
“Uhuh. No questions, alright? Just… know one thing,” he gulps and looks around, “ugh… Gonna go crazy in this place.”
“No, what… what I wanted to say was… two things, actually.”
“Rapidement,” I get him going - ponies can ramble, that they can.
“Okay, first - he won’t be alone. There’s a dame - don’t ask me why, I don’t know, actually… just don’t ask me. There’s a dame, and she’s the same piece of work he is. Just, I don’t know, better. Not going to crank your head off if you say something she doesn’t like, I guess. She’s a redhead, short mane, small patch on her nose. I don’t know how tight they are, I can’t tell with that piece of shit, but… I mean, noone else has ever… so… if you want to strike— I don’t know. Make your own choice.”
Interesting news. Never expected that. Noone can stand even being near him for too long - and if they can, he helps them down. That’s what I know. This… This won’t end my assignment here and there, but this is something to consider.
“Pourquoi vous faire soins?” I interject, knowing he wouldn’t be able to lie. Really, what does he have in on this? Have been looking him in the eyes for a while. Not really interested. Just curious.
“I— You know…” he stammers, and shakes his head. Waits a bit, then pulls out a piece of paper with the same sign I’ve been leaving - old, bits of blood on it, “...he doesn’t remember. Probably. Don’t think we’ve ever met. But I sure do.”
Funny to see ponies get angry. Even funnier to see them try to look like they’re not. It made sense to begin with. Next to a news agency, and in a town where ponies get sent if they misbehave. I wonder if I’ve looked through his files before. We had good circulation for a while, me and that pony bastard. I just thought that all the ties had been cut. Or burned. Or decapitated. Or whatever he does to them. Or… whatever we did to them. I wasn’t there. Not most of the time.
“And… second thing,” he stops to breathe for a second.
“Make him fucking suffer,” the pegasus looked up right at me, and answers my eyes for once. Stares right back at me like I have been at him for almost five seconds. Good hold. Longer than most. Takes it out of him. Would be best for him to leave now. It has been sizzling for a while.
“Serait le mieux… pour moi de partir...” he mumbles with his tongue half out, jaw slacked, and legs failing. Still, he walks. They always do that. Takes their time, but they always do that. Terrible pronunciation. I’m not the judge here, though. Not with my beak.
He’s given me enough. May as well just tell him to leave.
It has really been sizzling for some time. Hard to restrain myself. I can take the light, I can take the snow, I can take the cold, I can take the guards. This, this is worse. Don’t like it. What I like even worse is that the longer it goes on, the less I dislike it. That’s troubling.
But not for now. For now, business to take care of.
Nearby, it was nearby. Shadows, good for speed, can’t really wait any longer. The world can’t be bothered to move like it has to. Tape around the building, like it helps anything - one swipe of a talon, and it’s done. Could have vaulted, could have jumped, could have climbed, didn’t. Other things on my mind.
I can see the guard before she sees me. It’s normally easier than that. Normally, I don’t get the urge in empty quarters. Do what you can do, live how you can live. It’s been uglier.
“Stop! What is your—”
Young pony, female. Probably a cadet, if even military at all. Good. Good and bad. Implications… I can’t give a damn about implications.
“Oh, dear heavens, oh get the h—”
Implications… This one’s really young. Should I really? No time to wait. But… maybe… Exchange. Small exchange. A bit of the damn pain, for a piece of light mind.
She’s just staring at me, paralyzed. I stare at her. Beak gaping. Drooling. What an old, ugly mess. What a young, sad end. Talons almost fail me, takes some time to get the photo out of the pocket. Conscience. Need to calm conscience.
“Savez-vouz…” I try to start, but words barely want to form themselves.
“I… I… That…” the girl thinks quick, manages her mouth better than me, and she has it worse, by some standards, “That’s T-Twilight Sparkle. Cel-lestia’s student. S-she’s a long w-way away, down in Ponyv—”
Old, arthritic bastard. Wrong photo. Can’t do one thing right when you’re in pain. And you wanted to retire, get grandsons into the military. You can’t do squat if you’re not on form. This isn’t even what I needed, this is the next cotnract, the next name. If I waste time to look for his now, she might break out, and it’ll get even uglier.
Stupid, old raven. No. No, I’m a crow. A stupid, old crow. “Raven” sounds too good.
Should have staid in the office.
At least one thing this change brought about is good. The hook is good to hold them. Pierces the spine, goes through the brain, a bite of the beak, and there they go. Don’t like to think about it.
It’s a very slippery slope. I wish I’d never gotten used to the blood.
As an addendum to the case of D. Cote, it seems to be the latest in a connected row. Details in the report, the others are close to identical. What brings me to the pen here is that it ties up perfectly into this nasty little urban legend that both the folk and the Paracriminal Division have been concocting about. This one I’ll attach, it’s got a trick question at the end.
Apparently, we have a huge-ass raven griffon with a hook for a hand, metal plating in his wings, and a huge blister on his head on the run here. Illegally, of course. But, wait, it gets better. Equicide Division, read on.
Here is his list of activities: teleporting around the city, hypnotizing whoever he feels like, taking control of guard dogs, dispatching whole police squads in less than a second, bathing in the blood of his victims - because, you know, of course he fucking does - and generally breaking every law we have. And the Paracriminal folks tell me that he’s also undead. And has teeth in his beak. I guess they’d know, because apparently, those fuckers fought him. Which had them lose three squads. Now, if all that sounds like bullshit to you, that’s fine. Just hear me out.
The question is: WHY WON’T I BE SURPRISED AT ALL IF ALL OF THAT IS COMPLETELY, 100%, NO EXAGGERATION, NO BULLSHIT, TRUE?
Equicide Division, it’s your turn. Your jobs are on the line. Undead vampire griffon, running through your city, slaughtering your ponies for no reason. All you need to do is answer this for me.
As a last note, I’d like to point out that I can say whatever the fuck I want in these notices. Nobody checks them. The mayor’s office grinds your complaints down before they’re even written. Be glad you still have your jobs, you numbnuts.
By the authority of Princess Celestia, the Pierce Heaven Police Department and the Frozen North Emergency Patrol,
or whatever birdshit I have to put in here,