//------------------------------//
// Chapter 21 - Fun with Feudalism 
// Story: Bad Mondays 
// by Handyman 
//------------------------------//

"Ow, ow, and ow."
 
"Oh come on, it's not that bad," Tanismore said, slapping Handy on the shoulder. It was the same one that ached and had been broken just an hour before, healed only by the delightful balm that salamander salve proved to be. Tanismore didn't realise his mistake until Handy, resting his head in his arms, looked up and gave him a glare that could cut glass. Tanismore winced as he withdrew his claw and became very interested in the tankard of foaming beer in front of him.
 
So it was that Shortbeak had made good on her threat to train Handy to ensure that he didn't make a fool of himself at the tournament. A threat it was, not an offer. Handy had relished the opportunity to finally, finally face Shortbeak in single combat again, even if it was only just 'training'.
 
That had been a mistake on Handy's part, for apparently Shortbeak also relished the training, and Handy learned first-hand why it was he never saw her in the courtyards when the other knights practiced. No one dared stand against her, so she had taken to training on her own.
 
Her first sessions were much like that one night, going at each other with sticks, much to Handy's detriment. Oh sure, he learned how to properly wield a spear, but not before he had had his legs taken from under him dozens of times and was thrown to the floor, hard, half as many times. Never mind all the bruises, sores, and limping he was left with.
 
Of course, he didn't do himself any favours by showing up bright and early the next day after a healthy dose of vitamin salamander when anybody else, griffon or human, would be in their bed recuperating. God forbid Handy forego his indomitable reputation and not immediately bounce back from getting the seven hells beaten out of him like, you know, a sensible person would. Of course she was going to take that as a sign that he could handle more and just ramp it up.
 
After learning to use the spear, she began openly challenging him with it. It was then that Handy realised he hated flyers. All flyers. Everywhere. Forever. People with wings were assholes and should be shot down. Of course, he was only saying that by learning the hard way what single combat with a flying opponent was like. The answer? Hell.
 
Eventually, Handy would write down a useful guide for fighting anything and everything one was likely to encounter in this world, just in case. He'd dedicate an entire chapter to fighting winged creatures, and aside from the obvious things to include, such as useful tips like 'go for the wings' and an introductory paragraph detailing in explicit minutiae exactly why flyers were the devil, his primary advice would be this: never fight a flying opponent on their own terms.
 
You'd think that would go without saying. It did not. You needed to write that shit down, burn it into your memory, and never forget. It was not as if she had been trying to injure him, but Handy, in his blind, stubborn refusal to back down, often forced the matter. That he seemed to be able to simply sleep it off as far, as anyone was concerned, certainly didn't give her any incentive to go easy.
 
In the duel, she had been weighed down by armour. Her mobility had been restricted, and although she still hadn't admitted it to him, she had been holding back, so her flight advantage had not been as great as it otherwise would have. Now? She had no armour, was unrestricted, and she wasn't holding back. Handy's existence had become pain. It had paid off, however, as eventually it got to the point where Handy was able to anticipate and account for her movements, despite how much faster she was than him. He could now wield a spear properly, and soon enough they had moved to using bladed weapons.
 
Handy now went to bed each night with more cuts than he cared to count. At least it was a good excuse to use the salve.
 
On the one hand, he should probably thank her for training him largely in private, for he'd have been humiliated otherwise. On the other hand, God damn. He started using his glaive in conjunction with his shield. An offensive fighter with a polearm he was not. He'd leave that for when he had his hammer on hand.
 
So it was, as the two months rolled on, that he had actually taken to spending his infrequent nights off down at a tavern within the city, specifically one of the ones he now owned. When he wasn't doing his duty to the king, that was, or getting slowly beaten into a knight-shaped smear on the ground.
 
It didn't take long until his fellow royal knights began following him, especially the ever-gregarious Tanismore.
 
"So okay, maybe it is that bad, but hey, you're holding up!" Tanismore said brightly, taking a swig. Handy grumbled darkly to himself. Ordinarily he wouldn't be caught dead moping like this in public, but the griffons that frequented his taverns were somewhat used to them, and at least half of them worked his fields out on the Haywatch estate. Therefore, he felt a bit more content to relax a little in front of them, even though the real reason he went down here was so he could get a free bed far away from anyone who knew him for one night. That way, he had an excuse to not be anywhere near the castle where anyone could find him come six o'clock the following morning.  He was normally an early riser, but sometimes… sometimes you needed an excuse to lie in, you know?
 
A small cup filled with a clear liquid was placed in front of him. He glanced up from his arms and raised an eyebrow at the tavern keeper, and the big griffon smiled awkwardly.
 
"You look like you could use it, boss," he said before turning away and serving some yahoos at the far counter who were apparently singing a sea shanty, despite being God knows how far from the nearest sea. Handy sighed and swallowed the liquor. It burned the whole way down his throat and its taste was unfamiliar, but it settled pleasantly in his stomach so he made no complaints. It even made Tanismore's presence more tolerable.
 
"Hey!" Tanismore shouted, welcoming two more of their cohorts to the tavern. Handy briefly looked up, noncommittedly waved a hand, and went back to what he was doing, not even bothering to discern which of their fellow knights it was. "Cheer up, I thought you've been looking forward to training with her for a while now."
 
"I have," Handy finally said, "and it’s great, really." He rolled an arm, and his shoulder popped alarmingly. "Juuuussst great."
 
"Well, she's not going to be around for a week or so, so you'll have a bit of a break." That made Handy pause.
 
"Wait, really? Why?"
 
"Eh, Grimmy Grimface over there says she's being sent away for a week, to some healer out east. King's orders," he said, referring to the ever joyless Godfrey. Joachim had never mentioned anything about that.
 
"I wasn't aware the King was… ill."
 
"Neither was I. In fact, I kinda wanted to ask you about it. You know, you being the Sword and all."
 
"No, Joachim seemed perfectly fine to me, never heard a word."
 
"Maybe the healer is for somegriffon else?"
 
"Probably. It isn't our concern in any case; best not talk about it out loud." Handy then looked over to see the barkeep awkwardly standing nearby, clearly having heard everything. Handy narrowed his eyes dangerously at him. The barkeep waved his claws, shook his head, and zipped his beak before walking off, whistling to himself. There was a shout of approval from some corner behind the staircase, and Handy could briefly hear the plucking of strings. "Oh God."
 
"Oh hey, is that Longtooth?" Tanismore asked excitedly. "I love his ballads!"
 
'Everyone loves his ballads, the tasteless fucks,' Handy thought to himself as, sure enough, Longtooth started off on a ditty, a rhyming limerick with more verses than strictly necessary. His voice was warbly and constantly cracking, yet for some reason he couldn't fathom, everybody liked his singing. Handy groaned and waved the barkeep down.
 
"Another of whatever that was," he said, snapping his fingers. The barkeep half-filled the cup before pulling the bottle away. "I didn't say stop."
 
The bartender filled the cup to the neck and left the bottle while Handy just sort of… glared at the liquor accusingly. The griffon looked up at the would-be minstrel plucking away at whatever makeshift stringed instrument he had wandered into the tavern with today.
 
"You know, I could make him stop if it’s bothering you that much, boss," he offered. Handy looked up to the griffon and raised his head an inch to say something, but stopped. He looked around and saw most of the bar was happily talking and listening to the terrible sonnets as they nursed their drinks and shared good times with their friends. He closed his mouth and shook his head, leaving them to their fun.
 
No sense in spoiling the night for everyone.
 


--=--



The average week of Handy the Milesian, Royal Knight of Gethrenia, Sword of the King, Baron Haywatch, consisted of an uncountable amount of bullshit. While his position as Sword saved him from some of the more onerous duties of being a royal knight, largely doing the work of ordinary guards but in fancier, heavier armour, it didn't come without its own responsibilities.
 
His appointment had been a largely unceremonious affair. The office of the Sword was technically not one of the Privy Council, albeit one with direct access to the ear of the King himself. He had shown up in Johan's solar one day and sworn a short oath, literally consisting of a question and answer along the lines of 'Do you swear to serve your King?' and 'I do'. It was witnessed by Ivorybeak, who had him sign a sheet of parchment, and Bob's your uncle, Handy had the authority of a king.
 
Well not quite, it seemed. The Sword's powers in some respects were quite sweeping, vague in other respects, and restricted in everything. Sure, in a matter of life and death, he could make a rather hard decision and let the king sort things out after everything had calmed down. In some cases, he could pronounce judgement in the king's name over a matter of justice. However, he couldn't do this when the matter involved a noble without the king explicitly giving him leave to do so, unless it involved murder. However, he could judge on any matter when it involved commoners… except when it involved murder. One would honestly think that would be exactly the sort of scenario he would be able to make a decision on.
 
The position came with all sorts of asterisks and exceptions to the rules that had built up over centuries. This was the result of it being an ad hoc office that was not technically bound by law. The title was awarded and rescinded at the King's whim, and accumulated traditional roles and assumptions like moss on a stone.
 
In fact, it got so vague and confusing at times that Handy had actually taken to reading books in the castle library just to figure out what he could or could not do without actually breaking the law or, you know, causing a war or something. He knew he could use the vagueness of his powers to his advantage if he really wanted, most people being unaware of the Sword's limits, and the ones who knew its limits didn't know all of them. Handy liked being absolutely sure and noted a few loopholes he could get away with in a tight spot if necessary. Law made for dry reading most days, but after powering through the book on Equestrian criminal law, the confusing jumble of traditions, customs and local laws concerning the Sword made for a challenging and somewhat fun distraction.
 
…For a given value of fun, that was.

The long and short of it was, however, he didn't get to use his person as the Sword anywhere without Joachim giving him leave to do so, which usually came with specifications on what powers he was and was not authorized to use in that instance. The only exceptions were situations where the fate of the kingdom was put at stake and the king was unavailable to make the decision. Very odd wording on that one, come to think of it.

In practical terms, it largely meant he ended up taking care of the innumerable petty feudal obligations that Johan, in his person as king, couldn't realistically be expected to dedicate himself to all the time. This included but was not limited to: travelling to some far off pig sty to determine the right of inheritance amongst village folk; recognising and assenting to minor laws passed by minor nobles in their relative areas of Johan's direct domain—some of which, Handy was alarmed to discover, directly affected him due to being a baron—and presiding over the Court of Appeals for commoners and nobles alike. 

Johan was not an idiot—he had magistrates, but the law allowed appeals to a higher authority if the matter could not be settled by the lower courts. Funnily enough, that was one of those times when asterisks were involved, such as the aforementioned issues regarding murder.

Thankfully he didn't have to sentence anyone to death, but he locked up a hilarious number of people in the stockades. He really regretted telling Joachim what he used to do before coming to this world, which just made him all the more eager to use Handy for situations like these, freeing up affairs for him back in Skymount. A drunk Handy was a needlessly talkative and revealing Handy. Stupid past Handy. Handy hated that guy. Still, the look of sheer fear on people’s faces when the Shadow of Johan was sent to settle disputes and proclaim judgements was worth it every single time. Hello, yes, this is the Mouth of Sauron. Tell me of your legal troubles; I'm here to help.
 
This, of course, did not count the occasions when Joachim used him specifically for dealing with issues in his stead, where he had considerably more leeway in authority. Sort of.
 
"This is outrageous! I demand to see the King at once!" the… generously weighted countess blustered, ruffling the feathers of her wings and puffing her chest out. She was not at all intimidated by the six feet of cloaked, armoured fuck off standing before her. Her liveried servants behind her shuffled nervously, eyes never leaving Handy.
 
"My apologies, my lady. However, His Majesty is currently indisposed. If thou wouldst prefer, as his Sword I can—"
 
"Nope, that won't do at all," she harrumphed, turning up her beak to the air with eyes closed. Handy continued to look down at her. "I demand to see the King right this instance. It’s too important for the uhm… help." She looked over her eye glasses at Handy, her eyes lidded and condescending.
 
"And what matter would this be in regards to?" Handy asked, as polite as you'd like, even though this jumped-up noble was starting to get under his skin. Most tended to know who he was, and he usually let the wild tales do the rest for their respective images of him without word or comment. Either this woman was uncommonly brave and flippant, or an idiot. Besides, even without Handy, to think she had the right to demand to see the king then and there was beyond presumptuous, especially at this late hour after Handy had politely turned away much more important and worthy supplicants for the day.
 
"A matter of sensitive urgency you couldn't possibly comprehend. Now off with you. Fetch him for me."
 
"As I have stated, ma'am, His Majesty is currently indisposed."
 
"Well, what is he doing that’s so important!?"
 

--=--

 
"ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ…" Joachim snored before breathing out, his breath coming in short gusts and blowing the stack of parchments, scrolls, and loose pages of open books. The study was dark and littered with plates of half-eaten food, worn out candles, piles of books, dispatches, missives, commands, tools for making wax seals, maps, tools for reading and measuring distances on maps, and the occasional empty wine bottle.
 
It was all evidence of a long haul effort by the young king to clean up his kingdom and the occasional nasty surprises his dear late brother had left in store that needed to be corrected, so much so that he had been neglecting an awful lot of sleep. Handy may or may not have deliberately misinterpreted his last, slurred words before he went out like a light, slouched over his desk, as permission to dissuade further interruptions, no matter who came.
 
"ZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzz…"
 

--=--

 
"Tending to delicate matters long overdue for his attention, for the good of the kingdom of course," he replied, not quite lying. The Countess spluttered with indignation.
 
"That’s absolutely preposterous! I demand justice and will not settle for anything less!"
 
"My lady, I am the King's Sword and his Law. I am capable of granting thee satisfaction in anything thou might require," he said. The two liveried servants glanced nervously at each other.
 
"Hmph, very well, then maybe I can get an answer from you as to why the King has disgraced me so." Handy paused. He didn't hear anything about this.
 
"Could thee perhaps elucidate as to what alleged disgrace to which thou art referring?" Handy fully intended to frustrate this uppity Countess' temerity with long-winded, overly formal politesse. Sometimes old-timey speak had useful, if petty, applications in life.
 
What immediately followed was the Countess not going into exactly why she was there demanding a personal audience with the King, all the while Handy being loquacious in denying her again and again each time. It wasn't as if she couldn't wait a day and bring her case to the King's plea court when he was good and ready to receive her like everyone else. Noooooo, she demanded special attention. Handy began to wonder whether or not it was wise of him to put himself forward in Joachim's place.
 
'You know, I could just fob this off on Ivorybeak. He's not doing anything right now,' Handy thought to himself as the pair sat at a table, a castle servant delivering steaming hot tea in a decorative iron kettle. All the while, the 'conversation' had delved into the Countess' 'impressive' family lineage. It wasn't that much to be raving about. Handy had been in court long enough to know if a noble’s name actually mattered before actually speaking to them. He didn't rely on his or her lineage all that much because their value went without saying. If their lineage actually was impressive, they didn't need to boast about it—people would talk about it without their having breathed a word anyway.
 
A general rule of thumb among nobility was that it was better to be talked about than to talk about yourself, which was exactly why Handy enjoyed standing at the side in court and simply watching. He knew he wouldn't be approached, and he knew he didn't have to talk to anyone to make himself known. Having said that, it now spoke volumes as to who the hell this yahoo thought she was, given how she acted, and how she still hadn't told him why she demanded an audience. She didn't respect his office, she apparently didn't know who he was, and she was wasting the King's time. Perhaps she needed to be reminded of her place in the world.
 
"Lady Summerjoy, was it?" Handy began politely, putting his cup down.
 
"I should certainly hope you'd know my name by now, hmph!"
 
"So exactly when doth thou intend on dropping thy pretence and getting right to the point of it? Th'art wasting the Crown's time, and as the King's Sword, I have better things to be attending to."
 
"I beg your pardon?"
 
"I said out with it, or I will have thee unceremoniously ejected from the guest rooms." Handy’s voice was flat. The incensed noble's servants started bearing outright frantic expressions.
 
"Well I never! What gives you the right to—"
 
"I am the Sword of the King and the Shadow of Gethrenia, little bird," Handy interrupted icily. "You have come making demands of the King, claiming he has disgraced you without a shred of backing to thy claim. Nay, thou dost not even explain what thy claim is."
 
"I refuse to speak of such things to some common servant."
 
"I am no common servant. I stand here with the King's authority, or do you not know what the office of King's Sword entails? Perhaps an hour or so in the stocks would see you right, hmm?"
 
"You… You wouldn't dare!" Her composure slipped ever so slightly.
 
"You are right, of course, that would be most impolite. No need to sully your dignity like that in public. Perhaps a night in a cell would be more to your liking? Certainly more private and less embarrassing that way. Or do you have a suggestion of how I ought to deal with some noble with airs far above her station who’s falsely accusing the King of a wrong he did not commit?" he asked almost casually. That got her to shut up for a minute. "Now, wouldst thou be so kind as to tell me the real reason you wanted a private audience with the King. Or should I assume thou were not trying to merely ruse thy way into his presence and were, in fact, trying to implicate the King in something untoward?"
 
What immediately followed was a considerably more polite and respectful, not to mention brief conversation concerning the Countess' intentions for redress on petty matters that had occurred in court over a week ago. Given that Johan was present and hadn't noticed the incident, she technically wasn't lying about being 'disgraced'. Still, it was making a mountain out of a molehill. It had been an eyesore of a dress anyway.
 
He let her off with little more than a slap on the wrist and a very firm impression, casually mentioning that she should have a chat with her servants as she left. They seemed to appreciate the gravity of the meeting—perhaps they could let her know what kind of bullet she had just dodged.
 
They wouldn't be entirely wrong either. He had found himself more than once unnecessarily eyeing her neck.

 


--=--



"Okay, so… just go over this one more time please." Whenever he could get a hold of her, Handy would occasionally visit Crimson. He had several reasons of course, the first being to see if she was doing a good job with the alchemist guild. Considering it wasn't a smoking crater in the ground and the finances were at least partially in the black, he'd say she was doing well enough. The alchemists seemed less crazy at least. And again, just to be sure, he would check to ensure she was not growing fangs. Contrary to what he'd initially thought, ponies did in fact have canines, but thankfully the blood-red pony didn't seem to give any indication of going through whatever had made him… well, him.
 
So, if thestralism wasn't contagious to other creatures of this world, yet it was to humans, why couldn't whatever fucking variant of vampirism he currently had also be transferable? Not that he was complaining, but he'd really like an explanation. Maybe Crimson was a one-off? Was he missing something?
 
"Alright, well, you see, magic can be tapped by simply reaching out through cryhnphr, the process of focusing the magic through your body." She was also giving him baby's first magic lessons. Well, that was not quite accurate—more like she was teaching a kid how to understand complicated theoretical mathematics in the simplest way she could.
 
Also, said kid was foreign, spoke a different language, was blind, deaf, and had never heard of the concept of representing abstract thoughts through simple symbols. And he was four.
 
"Okay, so now what is this ‘cranfer’?" Needless to say, it was not going well. Not impossible, mind you, just so far out of his depth as to be like relearning the world all over again as if he were that hypothetical four year old. Or maybe Crimson just sucked at teaching.
 
Probably the latter. It went on like this each time, and each time Handy was left with far more questions than answers. However, at least she seemed to stop acting so timid around him in private, which was a definite plus. It certainly made conversations easier. Plus she had stopped referring to him as ‘Master’ as well. Up until now, he had just decided to let her keep the verbal tic rather than challenge it, no matter how much it had creeped him out, but he was glad she finally dropped it nonetheless. In truth, he was just looking for a way to make sense of the world around him. Magic was real and, frankly, that was a huge deal. He was now a vampire and magic was a part of him, for better or worse. He wanted to know how that exactly worked or, failing a scientific knowledge of how it worked, he'd settle for understanding some basic principles.
 
He had tried asking her specifically about old magic before getting an odd look from her. She had then insisted that it would be better to start off with the very basics before getting into it, and Handy had conceded the point. Despite that, he still wasn't getting anywhere. Every time he came, he asked his questions, and that led to referring to more topics and concepts that formed the basis of answers which themselves needed to be asked about and explained. If Handy didn't know any better, he'd swear Crimson didn't want him to learn anything.
 
The building shook, and a very faint 'I'm okay!' could be heard from somewhere below them. Crimson sighed.
 
"I'm sorry, sir, but these alchemists need to be constantly cared for."
 
"Evidently," Handy muttered, trying to reconcile simply willing magic through his body and what precisely that actually meant. He was capable of amazing things while on a blood high, but he still didn't know how, and was still unsure whether or not that actually counted as having and 'using' magic, or if he was a conduit for something that was already magical, namely blood, that he just burned away like diesel in an engine. Now he was back at square one. "I suppose I will leave you to it."
 
"I…uhm, I'm sorry I couldn't have helped more."
 
"No no, you've helped plenty, Crimson. Oh yes, that book I gave you. Have you learned anything new from it?"
 
"Nothing of any real significance. Why? Was there something you needed?" she asked easily, not meeting his eyes and keeping a bored expression as she accompanied him down the stairs.
 
"Just wondering," Handy replied, hiding the disappointment in his voice.
 
He left the guild house and walked down the hill back into Skymount, leaving her to deal with his pet mad birds. He knew the city like the back of his hand now, and he had some time to kill. He wasn't needed at court for the rest of the day. Joachim hadn't found some other errand to send him on; Shortbeak had fucked off to God knew where; nothing needed its skull caved in; Crimson was being Crimson and keeping one of his investments from blowing up… Oh right, he should probably find Klipwing and find out what new and exciting ways he was bleeding money.
 
To that extent, given that it was mid-afternoon, he expected the bird to be in the office Handy had purchased for him in the upper rooms above the bakery he owned. That was assuming he wasn't downstairs partaking in the goods for his lunch, as that griffon had a sweet tooth.
 
Sure enough, he found Klipwing outside said bakery for a change, happily chatting away with some other bird Handy didn't recognize. He swallowed the baked good he had been chewing on in a hurry when he spotted the human, and the other griffon quickly made her excuses and left. Klipwing smiled nervously, to which Handy could only raise an eyebrow. What was he worried about?
 
"M-Milord! I... uh, wasn't expecting you today."
 
"Morning, Klipwing." Handy looked over into the bakery, happy to see it relatively busy. He elected to walk away before his presence unduly drove away potential business for it. "Come with me."
 
Klipwing hurriedly scarfed down the remainder of his treat before following after Handy as the pair walked through the marketplace and, as usual, Klipwing brought him up to speed about what exactly was going on with his various businesses and properties. Not the most glamorous life for the fourth son of some backwater noble, working in the shadow of a shadow at court and effectively managing accounts, but he still applied himself with all due diligence. Handy found him agreeable in that sense and willingly overlooked the incredibly annoying nasally voice that persisted every time he talked. Puberty hit griffons hard in a lot of ways it seemed. Voice breaking was one of them and tended to drag on for years. Poor bastard.
 
Handy lifted a pear off a stall he passed, flipping a few coins to the vendor with hardly a glance and bit into it as Klipwing gave him the rundown. The craftsgriffons had finished their building and were making a steady profit. Unfortunately, he couldn't dig into said profits as much as he would've liked given the agreement for rent. Being tenants and not subjects, they didn't pay him any tax due to him not being, strictly, their baron. Handy snorted—something was better than nothing after all. It was one more source of revenue to add to the black at the bottom line, so he had Klipwing move on.
 
The blacksmith Handy kept forgetting the name of was actually doing amazingly well, having taken on no less than three apprentices and was expanding his business. A pleasant surprise by all accounts, and the grizzled old griffon was able to get back to his finer metal working now that he was turning a steady business. With his apprentices taking care of all the small, mundane demands for everyday items that kept the steady revenue, Handy had no objection to the man focusing more on the fancier, artistic side of his craft. Another good addition to the black.
 
Handy already knew about how well his two taverns were doing and let the brothers continue their business unabated. Klipwing moved on.
 
Next up was the brewery, and Handy steeled himself for what was to come. Not that it was doing badly of course, although it still was a drain on the purse strings until his farmlands got their crop rotation sorted and he could start supplying his brewery with the hops necessary to finally get something started. No, what Handy feared was what his brewmaster and his workers were up to.
 
It started with the nurses. Now, it was obvious what one could conclude: beer-swilling griffons and pretty nurses from the local hospital—we all knew how this story went.
 
No.
 
No you didn't.
 
You really, really didn't.
 
First there was the fire, from which Handy swiftly moved the topic along. There was a spate of guard chases through the streets, something involving a fish cart, several paddocks of livestock, and a bridge. Then Handy heard about the stolen, single sail riverboat… and how it ended up on top of a windmill. Then there was something about a wizard—he didn't know. The point was that a lot of people were angry. Handy had simply gawked at Klipwing as he recounted the tale and made a mental note to fire everybody at the brewery for their shenanigans.
 
That was until he heard how said shenanigans had uncovered a secret cult or something and foiled ten simultaneous kidnappings which resulted in very happy people and negating the cost of various damages, leaving the entire city by and large at square one by the time he got back from his trip out of town. And nobody had made mention of any of it to him until now.
 
Handy would honestly have preferred it if it was just a simple story of a bunch of drunken griffons fooling around with some comely nurses and that would be the end of it. It would have been less ridiculous and headache-inducing.
 
The mill was still a money sink, no surprises there. His additional lands he had ordered Klipwing to purchase would be used for cash crops in order to make the mill useful, but he still didn't have potential buyers for any end product lined up. So, even if the next harvest came in and it was made into something productive, he still didn't have any end consumers to justify it.
 
Speaking of said lands, that brought up another matter Klipwing was reluctant to speak about.
 
"Out with it, what’s wrong?" Handy demanded as the pair of them stopped over a bridge. The large Opal Tear River which bisected the city flowed underneath, small riverboats passing under the bridge's shadow as a pair of griffons carrying heavy planks walked past them.
 
"Uh, well it’s wage day, milord," Klipwing said, reaffixing his spectacles. Handy frowned.
 
"So? Pay the men their wages. I have the money, don't I?"
 
"Uh, n-not that milord. The farms, you need to be there."
 
"Well alright," Handy sighed, not particularly looking forward to the trek out to the Haywatch farmlands, but he had nothing else planned for the day and fuck walking the steps back up the mountainside to the castle. There was a reason he often spent days up there without ever coming down, and the reason was that he didn't have wings like the rest of these lucky bastards, so getting up and down the mountainside was a bit of an issue. "I don't see why I can't just send you with a bag of money to pay the farmhands."
 
"Uh, I mean, you have certain baronial duties to attend to."
 
"…Oh."

 


--=--



Handy, much to his alarm, had serfs.
 
At least, it was serfdom of a kind anyway. Most countries had some form of it, or so he was led to believe, but it was often called different things and the laws were different than what you might expect. In Griffonian law, serfs were known as the clansworn: the descendants of lesser families, hangers-ons, and dependents who swore allegiance and fealty to greater clans in what was once a despotic relationship. It was an evolution from a more savage time in early griffon tribal history that had changed radically since those days.
 
The modern understanding, that of griffons tied to the land in personal relationship with their liege lord, emerged in and around two thousand years ago when griffons ceased being exclusively herders and hunters and started being more agrarian like their neighbouring races. This had the added benefits of bringing griffon settlements off the mountain tops, the expansion of mining, and other civilizational development. Although he'd have to ask someone about it, the All-Maker cult began rising to prominence not long after the civilizational shift.
 
What this meant for Handy in real terms was the fact that he had somewhere in the region of a dozen families, supposedly 'clans' in their own right, sworn to him as their baron. The previous feudal lord who ruled this land had passed away without issue, and in a legal loophole, the land didn't default to the king but fell into the hands of a merchant who was only too keen to sell it on. The clansworn, lacking a lord, went with the land and ended up swearing to Handy. However, you did not have over a thousand years of serfdom without traditions, rules, and laws building up over time.
 
While Handy owned their land and they were beholden to pay taxes to him, he in return was obligated to guard their rights under force of law. And they had a lot of rights, not least of which was a very hard form of noblesse oblige, wherein poor harvests negated the need to pay taxes which were usually paid in tithes of the harvest itself. The tithe was levied to a certain level, with the remainder staying with the clansworn themselves to feed and to profit themselves come bumper harvests, which was good news for everybody. Come the bleak times however, he was responsible for housing and feeding them if they could not support themselves with what they had. Normally this would go without saying in a feudal relationship in the event of a disaster, but this meant that they had the right to impose upon their liege every time life got even a little bit tough.
 
A lord could try to refuse, but their serfs had the right to appeal to his overlord if he did so without good cause, and there were very rarely situations where you had good cause to not help feed a family who had very little food over the winter, barring a costly war. The feudal contract was taken very seriously under Griffonian law. You had clansworn, they worked your land and fought for you in war and paid your taxes, but whatever extra they made was theirs to keep and do with as they will.
 
Robber barons who felt like taking what they pleased soon found themselves and their families stripped of their titles by their betters. No one really felt like giving their liege lords a justifiable excuse to take their lands from their clans, so it provided a decent incentive to not be a tyrannical bastard, assuming you were of that persuasion to begin with. Although sometimes the system, as good as it was for higher lords and as much as it tried to mitigate the shittiness for the commoners, was rarely a pleasurable experience for petty lords. Like, say, barons for example.
 
So it was that Handy learned the hard way why a lot of land on this side of Skymount was being sold off so cheaply: the soil was practically worthless. His lands were getting the same weather as everyone else's, but it seemed to make no difference. No wonder Klipwing was so nervous to see him today. Only the newly purchased land was somewhat tillable, and worst of all, from what he was hearing, whatever blight was affecting the land was spreading. That meant quite a few of his serf families imposed on him for their sustenance when they couldn't farm enough to keep for themselves for the foreseeable next few months, and he had no choice but to comply.
 
Higher lords had different serf duties and relationships on the dubious account that they had more of them to deal with, but Handy was specifically low enough on the ladder that this affected him directly. It was little wonder the previous petty lords were so eager to sell off what became Handy's new property and let these serfs be someone else's problem.
 
He had other duties besides his expensive troubles and looking after his people when they needed it. Marriages for example. As baron, he was required to give acknowledgement and approval whenever major inter-clan affairs took place, which meant giving a nod of approval when this daughter married that son or other, and bearing witness to 'statements of intent'. Under law, he was meant to attend each wedding but that was hilariously unrealistic, so tradition and custom filled in where the law failed to meet reality. He just had either the prospective beaus themselves or their representatives give him their statements of intents in person, basically swearing an oath which he would then acknowledge as legitimate. He also had the job of acknowledging parentage and clan membership of this or that newborn child.
 
Typically as baron, his role was as an intermediary in clan affairs to prevent blood feuds, which was why he was so tied up in such familial matters and why his presence and approval was necessary to give legitimacy to them as a point of reference and authority. It only got awkward whenever clans decided to marry into other clans in servitude to another lord.
 
That was all the time, just so you know. It got difficult only insofar as they tried to decide exactly which clan allegiance took precedence in the marriage so that the newlyweds and their soon-to-be young family would be loyal to this or that lord and where they could plot down a house. As a result, Handy got to know a few of his neighbouring barons on first name terms. One of them was named Skyler, who liked to sing. Handy did not care for the man.
 
Despite all this, the clans were beholden to him in times of war and could not move off the land without his permission, but they otherwise had complete freedom of movement to travel the kingdom as they pleased. Handy, if he could, would have happily changed the relationship, but it turned out you could not force serfs to be free griffons. They could refuse and historically often did when lords tried. A lot of history and pride was tied up in their positions in society, with a man's father's, father's, father's father serving this or that lord since time immemorial. Basically, being a serf meant a guaranteed minimum income, protection, and shelter for their family, as well as a sense of history, identity, and pride in return for bearing arms in times of war while also getting tax exemptions that not even nobles could get away with.

Handy had heard one of the other barons joke once about a duke who had some noisome clansworn, so he had ennobled the lot of them just to justify getting them off of his land and replacing them with a better breed of person. Handy hadn't quite laughed, but he did let out an amused snort.
 
Now in addition to this, Handy also had tenants. These were families who weren't bound to Handy in serfdom, but instead were tenants on his land, doing the exact same thing serfs did. Handy had six families of tenants. They were utterly dependent on Handy not deciding to just kick them off his land and renting it out to other tenants if he so chose. He owed them no baronial duties or protections beyond basic protection from threats to life and property, held no filial relationship to them, and in return they paid him higher dues in harvests and taxes than a serf would. Other than that, they were basically freemen. Freemen who constantly sought to become serfs.
 
Why would anyone not want to be a freeman? Well, largely because being a freeman was not all it was cracked up to be. You had no guarantees in life at all, let alone job security. You more than likely could not afford the dirt you walked upon, so good luck buying enough land to build a large shack, let alone a house, for your family. Sure, you could go anywhere you liked, but so could a clansworn serf, so it was not like that was a special privilege. Plus the clansworn always had a home to go back to and knew it. Sure, you could find a trade and ply it to earn enough to set yourself up. Good luck doing that when you had to rent out the property you use to do your work in the first place while having to worry about the guilds and their dues breathing down your neck.
 
Your only realistic choice was to live in a city, which meant more often than not that you had to become a tenant of a landholder and pay whatever rent they charged on top of your taxes. And most landholders in cities? They tended to be the few freemen who did well for themselves, usually through becoming ruthless merchants and gathering enough capital to buy the land, or some of the more notorious fellows who exploited their fellow griffons to get to the positions of power they achieved.
 
This class of titleless landholders would be comparable to the burghers of medieval Europe and were held in just as much disdain by commoner and noble alike. They, individually, tended to be richer than most minor lords and yet chafed from not possessing the privileges and rights nobles enjoyed, frustrated that their raw monetary power didn't translate automatically into real power and influence. More than once and in more than one kingdom, these plutocrats had tried to simply buy their way into nobility and thus into the realms of hard power, often using it to the benefit of their cronies. It never really ended well for those realms that let them get away with this, hence the constant suspicion and fractious relationship between the aristocratic and the oligarchic powers in society.
 
To this end, they were often associated with underhandedness and untrustworthiness, and a lot of it was usually justified. It was to such an extent that even the merchant classes and guilds distanced themselves from them, as well as the academia. A lot of people had worked very hard to be as successful as they were through legitimate means, and the last thing they wanted was to be associated with these would-be robber barons. If you were a freeman, you were more than likely under the thumb of one of these guys depending on what city you decided to settle down in. But hey, at least you don't have to be automatically conscripted when war came! That was something right? That was provided you weren't in debt to anyone who decided it'd be swell to make a bit of money coercing you into a mercenary band, and then renting you out to some hapless lord who had no reason to suspect you were anything but another sell sword. You did, after all, have a family to think about.
 
Most of the time, thankfully, the plutocrats only kept themselves to where the money was: either major port cities or the capital of most countries. Everywhere and everyone else could go to hell. However, Skymount was almost entirely owned by the king and his direct personal vassals like Handy and several of the other royal guards who held land here. If you were a freeman, your landlord was likely a noble of some description, which meant you had more options if you got sick of high rates and taxes. It was not as if you couldn't go wherever you wanted and try your fortunes elsewhere—you could do whatever you wanted. The thing was that a lot of people, who climbed the ladder as far as it allowed them them go, had a nasty tendency to kick the ladder away to prevent others from joining them.
 
So it was that Handy was left with a dilemma: he had serfs he'd rather make tenants and tenants who wanted to become serfs, with the power to grant one but not the power to grant the other. He couldn't ease his burdens and make the serfs freemen against their will, but he had little incentive to vassalize his tenants no matter how much they wanted him to. Awkwardness aside, what was in it for him? More soldiers but less money? It was not as if Gethrenia was gearing up for war anytime soon.
 
Welcome to feudalism: it was always this complicated for everyone, everywhere, all the time, always, forever. That was what you got in a society that developed organically over millennia.

So, when he was done paying off the hired hands who aided his farmers in their work and maintained his lands and properties, he then paid the few guards he had patrolling his lands at night. Then he dealt with the concerns and received payments from his tenants. They were hilariously intimidated, this being the first time they met their resident dark lord. They were suffering the same ill effects of the land that his serfs were having, and their appeals for becoming serfs instead were surprisingly earnest. Handy almost accepted but put the matter off. He was a foreigner who owned land in a country not his own, and had a hilarious amount of leeway in deciding the fates of entire families who resided on his land, with the power to kick them off without recompense for any improvements they might have added. As an Irishman, the irony was not lost on him, and he was deeply uncomfortable with the situation, but such was his current position. He'd have to think about it some more, but he did agree to foot the bill to help keep their families fed and warm over the winter. This seemed to mollify them and eased a few worried faces.
 
Then he dealt with clan affairs, having adopted the name of Haywatch for his own 'clan' just for the sake of legal simplicity. Baron Handy Haywatch—he liked the way it sounded. He heard statements of intents, gave his blessing for marriages that had already taken place, and recognized at least four newborn griffons. They… They were so very small. Jesus, baby griffons were cute. Oversized heads, fluffy feathers, and curled up in a ball in their mothers' forelegs as they were, for a moment Handy legitimately forgot his hatred of children.
 
He actually had to send Klipwing back to the city to call up a priest when it became clear the local cleric had taken ill and they needed an officiary of the temple for the future happy events, but other than that, and a brief fight that hilariously enough broke out right in front of him between two aggrieved brothers, nothing of note happened. He noticed, now that he actually got to meet them, the majority of the families who resided on his land consisted of griffons with noticeable ears. He didn't see that often, but it was noticeable enough that he couldn't just pass it off as a rare occurrence. How strange.
 
When all was said and done, and the sun was on the wrong side of six o'clock, that still left Handy with a conundrum: he had acres of land under his name that were proving to be increasingly worthless. So, when he was done doing his duties and could finally get up from the table in the middle of a field he had been sitting on for the better part of the daylight hours, he took to walking.
 
It was a relaxing walk past the fields in the evening sunlight. Rolling hills, quartered off and sectioned, led away to the tall pine forests that lined the foothills of the mountains to the north. He enjoyed watching the shadows of the clouds pass over the now empty fields while animals grazed on the grass. That was another thing that always startled him, the strange animals of this world. Sure, you had rabbits and chickens, ravens and eagles. But you also had fenwyrs and three-legged grumts, leathery-winged fen jumpers and single-eyed buzzicks. It was bizarre to pass by a pen of pigs, thankfully non-sapient, and then also walk right by another pen filled with grey-blue-skinned, wrinkly, furless badger-like things he couldn't put a name to. All the while, nobody else batted an eye, nothing seemed incongruous, and all was as it should be as far as society was concerned.
 
He was pondering over this when he was brought back to his senses by a grumpt having walked up to the fence separating its field from the gravel path, and using its trunk to grab Handy's cloak. It chewed happily away at the material until Handy waved it off and reclaimed his cloak from a fate worse than death. He walked on.
 
He passed by a field where a large number of younger griffons were playing some sort of game involving multiple balls. There were four goal posts and their wardens had their wings bound as they eyed the players jumping and diving, fighting over the balls. Handy couldn't distinguish what teams, if any, there were. He passed them with no remarks and went back to looking over the fields as he pondered what he could do about the land.
 
'Perhaps have Crimson look into it? No, that might not do anything. Even if there was a sorcerous cause, there's no reason to suspect she's any good at Agrimancy,' he thought to himself, ignoring the hushed whispers from the children behind him as he passed them by, their game slowing to a halt at his presence. He continued to pay them no mind as they picked their game back up when he passed. He drew nearer to a small collection of houses. 'What if it’s not magical at all? Maybe there's some pollution or toxin affecting it? The rivers are clean though. Maybe the soil is just acidic and I'm shit out of luck? I have a few dilapidated manor houses here or there. Maybe I could set up some of my alchemists to test the soil or something over the course of a few weeks.'
 
Handy stopped as he heard something odd. Looking around, he found himself on the edge of a couple of dark wood and stone houses with thatched roofs. The children from before were playing energetically back in the field and were shouting loudly. Again he heard it, sounding like sniffling and muffled speech. He carefully followed the noise until it led him to some bushes at the back of a shed. He could make it out clearly now, and when he looked around, he saw who was causing the noise.
 
Then his mind broke.
 
There, lying against the bushes with its rear, leonine paws pushed up against the fence sat a griffon… sort of. It had the body, tail, forelegs, claws, and wings of a griffon… but its head... Its head was that of a pony. The brown pelt of its leonine body did not match the light yellow fur of its head, which came down over where its neck met its body like unshorn fetlocks. Its hair was bright orange and its eyes were blue.
 
Handy… He did not know how to even. He had seen a hippogriff back in Infrendare, but he had wisely dismissed that as some rare breed of griffon he was previously unaware of, because the alternative had been laughably impossible. This time, however, he was having a distinctly difficult time rationalizing what he saw before him. Therefore, he didn't. His brain came up with the most convenient excuse, as in to ignore it and move on. It was then he noticed the kid was crying into its arms.

'Oh, a crying child,' he thought to himself, blinking once. 'Welp, everything appears to be in order over here then. Moving on.'
 
And just as he was about to quietly take a step backwards, turn right around, and walk right the fuck away while ignoring what he had just seen, the kid looked up. Handy mentally cursed himself for not walking off anyway when the kid locked eyes with him. Those big, blue, rubbed raw eyes looked up at him with surprise and alarm, the stare only interrupted as a gloved claw reached up to rub away another tear before looking away so as to not be seen.
 
"D-Don't look…" he muttered rather pathetically. Handy, in the awkward position of being a dark overlord stumbling across a crying child, decided to do exactly as he was asked and proceeded to fuck off without another word. He took a few steps away and turned to look back at the bushes and then back over to the field of playing children. His pause made him aware of continuing sniffles.
 
'Just walk away; it’s childer being childer. Leave him to his stupidity,' he told himself as he turned around for the third time. He heard another sniffle, a cough, and a shuddering sigh from the bushes. He paused to rub the bridge of his nose. 'Oh fuck me.'
 
"Hey," he called out, walking back over to the bushes. The kid looked up with concern, his wings spread wide as if to take flight. Lying as he was, Handy knew he wasn't going anywhere. "What’s wrong?"
 
"N-Nothing, go away!" he said in a huff, crossing his forelegs and looking away. Handy levelled his eyes at him for a moment longer. He'd certainly never seen anything like him before. He was probably not one of his griffons… or whatever he was.
 
"Where are your parents?" he asked conversationally. He wasn't wearing his armour, but he was probably doing no favours for the kid's nerves by walking about with his hood up. But fuck him, it was autumn and the wind was cold.
 
"…In town," the kid eventually said, before mumbling something.
 
"What was that?"
 
"M'here with my uncle."
 
"And where is he?"
 
"Inside. Sleeping." Well, this shouldn't be too hard. Hmm, this hamlet was the closest to his second barn of the northern fields and a good mile away from the city itself. That meant at least one of these houses belonged to the Stone-eyes. He had met them earlier today, seeing that they were tenants of his. That meant the other two were the Tallgrass and the Longfellows respectively. Kid must be related to one of them.
 
"You want me to go and get him? Tell him what’s wro—?"
 
"No!" the boy suddenly shouted at him. Handy cocked an eyebrow before the boy shrank back just a hair, but he still held Handy's gaze. "I-I don't need his help."
 
"Well you certainly seemed to be handling it yourself," Handy commented. A shout of celebration erupted from the field on the other side of the hamlet. Someone had apparently scored a goal. The boy shifted uncomfortably. "What’s your name, son?"
 
"…Wren." Handy paused as he registered that. "Yes, like the bird, haha, I get it all the time," Wren said, kicking a stone away in a huff before sniffling.
 
"Well look, Wren. I'm going to be honest with you, if you're being bullied—"
 
"I'm not being bullied!" Wren shot up onto his hind legs and pointed an accusatory claw at Handy, his wings splayed to help give balance. His teeth were gritted, and Handy could make out a suspicious number of sharp teeth amongst them. "I'm just… tired of always getting beaten up."
 
"I'm pretty sure that’s one of the definitions of being bullied." Another cheer went up from the game yard beyond them.
 
"Hear that?" Wren said, gesturing with a claw before falling on his backside again and wrapping his wings around him. “I can't play with them. I always get hurt."
 
Handy noted he was rubbing a wing as he said that. Now that he thought about it, he did seem rather small for the boys who were across the way playing. The game looked pretty rough too. Maybe this kid was just a bit too big for his britches?
 
"Well if that’s what's wrong, maybe you should play with children your own age then?"
 
"They are my age." Oh. Hmm.
 
"Well then, I guess you should just lay off. Play different games—not everyone is suited to play rugby after all."
 
"I don't care. I want to play with them. I hate being small and weak."
 
"Getting yourself needlessly hurt is not going to fix that," Handy retorted, getting annoyed at this child's snappiness.
 
"But I want to beat them, to be stronger than them!" Oh good, he was a kid with a complex. This was going to be fun.
 
"Wren, look, you can't be stronger than them just because you will yourself to be. That's being thick-headed. You need to give yourself time, otherwise you'll just keep hurting yourself."
 
"But it’s not fair! I want to win something for once! I hate always getting picked last! I want to win!"
 
"So you're just going to ignorantly toss yourself into trouble just to prove a point?"
 
"I'll do what I have to," he said resolutely, lowering himself in his wing fortress and eyeing the tufts of grass across from him evilly. He sniffled.
 
"I'm trying to help you."
 
"Yeah, well, what do you know? Weirdo." Handy resisted the urge to kick a child. Here he was, clearly under some sort of delirium because he tried to help a kid out. What did he get in return? This horseshit. You know what? If this kid wanted to get himself hurt, Handy was only too happy to oblige. He smiled knowingly.
 
"You know, back in my homeland of Milesia, the wren is considered the king of all birds," he began. The pony-griffon thing didn't respond, sitting there in its huff. Handy waited a moment until he was sure he had the child's attention before continuing. "Even though it was amongst the smallest and weakest of birds, it proved itself worthy of being king."
 
"M'not a bird…" the boy huffed. Handy bit back the obligatory 'yes you are' in response and patiently continued.
 
"No? Are you not curious, little Wren, how the little wren bested even the mightiest of eagles?" The boy looked up at him now. He saw the surety in his eyes that Handy was mocking him. He was, but by the time Handy was done, he'd think he wasn't. "Shall I take that as a yes?"
 
"Just… go away. Leave me alone."
 
"Can't, it's my land." The boy's ears flicked up in surprise. "You might want to mind your tone, lad, for your uncle's sake if not for your own."
 
Wren didn't say anything in reply, but Handy swore he heard a muffled apology as he lay there snuggled up in his wing fortress, although his ears were still tilted towards Handy.
 
"There is a story that goes with it, a bit far-fetched, but let's see if you can't learn something from it…"

Long ago, the birds lacked a king, so the word was sent out through all the glens, hills, forests, and gulleys. All the birds in the land gathered in the valley of the birds, called Glen-na-hEan. There, the owl, wisest of the birds, asked the others how to go about choosing their king. All kinds of birds were there: doves as white as snow and crows as black as night, tiny robins who were red of breast, and wood pigeons who were proud and haughty. Rich magpies, poor swallows, seagulls of the coasts, and mighty eagles of the heights. And yes, even the little wren too.

Day and night they argued but could not reach an end. Then the wise owl consulted with a beautiful swan who was as wise as himself, and also with her shrewd brother. Amongst them, they decided that he who flew highest should be king, for on nothing else could everyone agree.
 
It was then the golden eagle, with feathers the colour of honey and whose handsome brow was heavy with pride, spread its mighty wings and proclaimed, "I will win! I will win! I am the strongest, swiftest, and most glorious of us all!"
 
But the rich magpie, ever careful and cautious, pointed out that strength alone did not a good king make, for he must be wise and caring of those beneath him. He must know what life was like for even the least of his lessers. At this, the proud golden eagle scoffed and strutted its majesty. How could any other hope to compare? Or so it reasoned…
 
So it was that the time came and the flock of birds gathered. The wise owl and the two swans set themselves aside so that they might judge and crown the victor. The call was let out and up they flew. The small birds were lost as the bigger ones flew higher, but even these were outpaced. The mighty golden eagle, proud and magnificent, rose higher and higher still until it flew higher than any other bird, for the others had tired themselves.
 
"I have won, I have won! I will be king!" the eagle cried.
 
But as the eagle celebrated, a tiny voice spoke into its ear.
 
"Thank you," it said, and then did the tiny wren leap off the eagle's back and, rested and ready, flew higher than the eagle. Shouting and outraged, the eagle demanded the wren to come back, but try as it might, it was tired and already so high. The wren was fresh and was now higher still. The eagle could not climb high enough to meet the wren and had to come down. Soon the wren came gliding down after him.
 
And so it was that the wren had won the crown and became king of all birds, despite the best efforts of even the golden eagle.
 
By the end of the little story, the boy was avidly paying attention. Handy gave him another smile.
 
"So, you want to win, little Wren?" he asked in a teasing voice. "Oh I don't know, you're not very big or strong. I don't think you have it in you."
 
"Wait!" Wren called out as Handy turned around. "The, uh, the bird in the story, h-how did he get on the eagle's back like that? How was he not noticed?"
 
"How do you think he did it?" Handy asked after a moment's pause, contemplating how he was going to shape this boy's interpretation without directly telling him how he wanted him to think.
 
"Did… Did he have some kind of magic? Was the big eagle deaf?"
 
"No, wee Wren, neither."
 
"Then how did he get on his back and stay there without being seen? Why did none of the other birds call him out on it?"
 
"How indeed?" Handy teased, waiting to see where the boy would go with this. Wren was sitting on his haunches, thinking now, his tears dried up and his muzzle scrunched as he concentrated.
 
"Maybe… Maybe the how does not matter..." Oh, this should be good.
 
"Yes?"
 
"Maybe instead of just trying to beat them head on…" Wait for it. "I should make them do the work for me! Force them to do what I want, like a king!"
 
There we go; there was the stupidity Handy was looking for. Handy's smile revealed no more information than it did before, however, as he let the child bask in his own misguided revelation.
 
"If that's what you take away from it, I hope it helps. Feeling better?"
 
"Yeah… Yeah, I guess so." The boy sat up a little straighter now, no longer hiding behind his wings.
 
"Good, then go play. And give your uncle my regards." Handy turned and left the boy thoughtful and alone. Now, one might consider Handy's little story a kindness, teaching a young boy the error of his ways and how he was looking at things wrong.
 
Handy saw it another way.

The boy was as bull-headed as they came and had far more in common with the golden eagle than the wren in the story, in attitude if nothing else. Handy had surmised that he was going to take the entirely wrong message from the story and go off and probably get the shit kicked out of him. He was sure of it; he knew guys like that back when he was a child. Insecure and all bluster, they got what was coming to them. To that end, he cut off the ending of the story where the wise owl explained to the eagle why the wren was a more worthy king; for being clever and wise and planning ahead, even when he was not strong. No sense making the moral too easy for the little shit.
 
Besides, he didn't mention the little ritual they had back in Ireland on St. Stephen's day regarding wrens, and celebrating hunting the treacherous little bastards and giving out their feathers for luck. Or they did back when they actually hunted them.
 
If nothing else, maybe the kid might learn some humility and a measure of his own limits. Either way, it was no skin off Handy's nose.
 
Wren watched him go before crawling out from behind the bushes. He heard the other children laughing and shouting as they played in the evening light. He lashed his tail against the ground once in thought, unsure of himself, thinking back over the human's words. 'If that's what you take away from it,' he had said. Suddenly he wasn't so confident in his assertion.
 
He took one last look at the departing human, who was slowly disappearing over a small hill rise, before making his decision and running back over to the ball game.
 

--=--


The week had come to an end. That was another oddity of this world he had simply come to accept. The days roughly had a twenty four hour cycle. All the clocks he had seen were on a twelve hour standard at least. There were seven days in the week and, in places that used Equestrian English, they were named Monday to Sunday, just as they were on Earth. For all that, the similarities of time keeping ended there. The seasons were longer for one. By and large, there were on average five weeks to a month and more than twelve months to a year. The months bore no similarity to the Gregorian calendar either, being named Myndas, Fyrn, Geliope, Sindas, Kiendas, and so on. The names and their references were alien to Handy, so he didn't bother to pay them much mind.
 
Honestly, he was glad for the difference, because at least the calendar looking different when you visit another world made sense. Given how rare such a thing was, he took what he could get. He didn't know the details on how it was all measured, nor why. This was a world where the sun and the moon orbited the planet and could be controlled with powerful magic. There was just far too much he didn't understand.
 
Still, he had to prioritise more pressing matters first.
 
Such as the griffon claws ready to tear out his throat.
 
Now fortunately, griffon claws by themselves weren't that sharp. Handy saw that first hand long ago when Joachim tried to go toe to toe with several diamond dogs and failed. Sure, they could take an eye out and dig into your flesh with some concerted effort, but it wasn't like they were razors or anything.
 
Most griffons, warriors at least, tended to wear bladed gauntlets on their foreclaws which accentuated their lethality, designed more for swiping and slashing than grappling. It was much like Shortbeak had done before. That said, you did not want them at your throat—they did not have to be all that lethal in their own right to end your life when they were that close to something suitably vulnerable and soft.
 
Shortbeak eventually smiled down at him as he looked down at the claw to his throat in surprise and impotent rage. He had had her, he had finally had her! After being on the wrong side of the training sessions from the get go, and then spending a full ten minutes dodging and swiping, keeping her at a distance just long enough to feint an opening, she had finally fallen for it. Handy had sidestepped, spun, anticipating where she was going to turn next and struck. The haft of the weighted training spear had come down hard on the arm of her wing, hard enough to hear the wood crack and for Shortbeak to hit the ground hard. Suddenly knocked off balance and the muscles of her left wing deadened, her careening wing had torn the practice spear from Handy’s hands.
 
He had wasted no time and was upon her in an instant, placing his knee to her back and putting his weight down on it, keeping a firm grip of her remaining good wing while her hurt one was still insensate and then—
 
Well, and then he was on the ground. It had happened so fast that he barely had the time to blink and register it. There had been a blur of black feathers, a throbbing pain in the side of his head, the wing he had in his grip had suddenly disappeared, and the world had been turned upside down. Now he was on the ground, her claw at his throat, and she was glaring down at him, wide-eyed and alarmed. Her good wing was spread wide and the other one rose at her side, slightly limp and twitching. Handy glared angrily in return before sighing deeply as he realised he had lost yet another round. It was that change of tension that eventually caused the worried look to fall away from Shortbeak's face.
 
"Better," she said, somewhat shakily, letting go of Handy's neck and stepping off. Handy got back up, trying not to let the frustration and disappointment get the better of him. So close, so damn close to getting a 'kill', and she pulled whatever the hell that was on him. She kept her back away from him as she went to pick up her fallen spear, her sore wing still outstretched and twitching a bit. Perhaps he hit it a little too hard? She didn't seem as if it were bothering her too much though.
 
"Should we go again?" he asked, hoping to follow up and go after her again. He was surprised when she paused, seemingly studying her practice spear for a moment.
 
"Actually, I think that should do for the day." She held the spear horizontally and tapped her claw along its length for a moment. She then turned and gave him her usual neutral expression with the hint of that confident smile she occasionally wore. "Although I am glad to see you finally know how to use that thing."
 
Handy looked down at the weighted practice spear. It was purposefully off balance, given that he was going to be using a proper polearm in reality to give him a sense of weight. The actual spear point was covered to prevent accidental stabbings. Handy knew from experience, when they first started practicing with naked weapons, that it was a serious possibility. He hummed an acknowledgement.
 
"So, where forth hath thou been all week?" he asked.
 
"Hmm?"
 
"Thou hast been gone all week. Something about an errand for the King?" he probed. It actually felt beneath him to reduce himself to court intrigue and fishing for information. He was the Sword after all, but Johan had been evasive on the issue.
 
"Just a minor concern," she replied, just as evasively.
 
"I'm sure it was," Handy said disbelievingly. He frowned when he glanced at the training spear he had been using as he put it away. The head was missing, leaving only a jagged end to the haft. He looked back over his shoulder at the training circle and saw the still covered spearhead and the small remnant of the wooden shaft it had been attached to. He then looked at Shortbeak. The wing he hit was still held out from her body and twitching slightly. Perhaps he overdid it? It was not like they were wearing armour at the moment.
 
'Nah, she's fine. She can take worse than that. ‘Sides, she seemed like it wasn't bothering her. Still, it wasn't like her to end practice early...'
 
"Will you be alright?" Handy asked casually. Shortbeak looked up and raised a brow.
 
"I'll be fine," she replied even as her wing twitched. Handy's nose tickled in time as a scent reached it.
 
"Are you certain?" he queried, turning around, brow furrowed. Sure enough, he noticed the tiny splotches of red on the floor. "Shortbeak, you're bleeding."
 
"It is merely a cut, and hardly the first." She waved her claw and finished putting away her spear. Now that Handy knew was a falsehood. If Handy had ever managed to give Shortbeak anything more than some light bruising before, he would have certainly been able to tell. Much like right now. She still hadn't closed her wing to her side and it twitched awkwardly.
 
Handy considered the wing for a moment longer after she had turned away, then eyed the exit. The interior courtyard was the same one they had practiced in on the first night she said she'd train him for the tournament. It was small, relatively secluded, and private. It was a short distance from there through the narrow corridors of the castle to the stairs that would take Handy to his private dorm as a knight. It was, all in in all, very considerate, as if she knew he'd appreciate the privacy to return to his quarters after getting all manner of hell beaten out of him. Although that last thought did nothing to quell the bitter grudge he still felt, he knew now that he could never take her in a straight fight. It did raise another thought.
 
"How dost thee plan to get down?"
 
"Excuse me?"
 
"You live down the mountain, right?" he asked, waving his hand to one of the high vaulted windows. It was late evening and the fiery orange of the sunlight barely illuminated the room. "I assume thou art going to walk down there? Can't imagine thou wilst be flying with that wing."
 
Shortbeak looked moderately offended. "I have flown with worse, I'll have you know."
 
"Then why art thou still here, waiting for me to leave first?" Handy noted. She had been taking her time in leaving, and unlike Handy, she was carrying nothing with her that she needed to gather up. She didn't answer, looking to the door contemplatively as her wing twitched again, and Handy smelled more blood.
 
For griffons, quickly preening or fixing their wings in public was about as casual as brushing down one's hair or coat, as it was the effort put into fixing one's appearance. Handy had even helped Joachim pull detritus out of his wings way back in Spur Bay. Shortbeak, however, was one griffon he had never seen fidget with her wings. He supposed, given how much larger they were than most, it would be incredibly awkward and embarrassing trying to set them straight in public, even if she were to do so quickly.
 
And here she was with a sore and hurt wing that… wait. Handy put two and two together and thought back to his splintered training spear. Was that why she reacted with such alarmed ferocity when he had her pinned to the ground? Had he hurt her more than he thought?

"Shortbeak, you're bleeding," Handy repeated. She was finally drawn to look at her wing seriously.

"It’s just a flesh wound."

"One keeping thee from closing your wing. Art thou ending practice early and waiting for me to leave to save yourself the embarrassment of having to fuss over thy wings?" Handy asked bluntly. "My spear splintered after I hit you. I think thou art in more pain than you let on."
 
"And what of it?" Shortbeak asked sharply. Handy raised a placating hand but kept an annoyed expression.
 
"I'm just saying I can help," he said, and continued at her questioning look. "Look, either thou art going to limp all the way down the mountain with a bad wing because you're too stubborn to pull that bit of wood out now, or thou wilst risk infection flying on it while it’s trailing blood. I'd imagine thou wouldst want to save thyself the embarrassment. I just wish to repay the favour."
 
"What favour?"
 
"You know what favour. My usefulness to the King as a spectre at his call would ill-survive being shown up so regularly where everyone could see, even if it was by his finest knight. It'd be rude to just leave thee to blunder down the castle steps with thy wing like that. Now come, show me where it hurts. I have a secret to share with you."
 
He was vaguely aware of some spluttered objections as he turned to search his pack on the floor. He discreetly pulled out the now familiar bottle of orange liquid, dosing two small towels with the substance before replacing it in the pack. When he turned back, Shortbeak was glaring at him.
 
"What? Look, if it's all the same, I do not like people in my personal space either. Hate it in fact. But if thou wish to reach up and pull that out thyself," he gestured to the crook of the arm of her wing, "and risk getting some of it stuck in there and have it fester, then by all means go right ahead. Or just tell me thou wilst drop by the apothecary before leaving and I'll happily leave thee to thy business. But thou art no good to me or to Gethrenia if thou art willing to lose a limb for fear of embarrassment."
 
"It’s not that big a deal."
 
"Close thy wing then." To her immense credit, her face never showed it. But when she did, out of stubborn pride if nothing else, the wing noticeably shook and sprang back out, clearly in pain. "I take it I hit a muscle then?"
 
"…Yeah," Shortbeak admitted, looking off to the side.
 
"You were not seriously going to wander off without getting that looked at?"
 
"Would you?"
 
"I have an excuse."
 
"No you don't."
 
"Yes I do, in fact. Could you extend it further?" he asked, rather stupidly. On average, for griffons at least, their wingspan at full extension from tip to tip was usually three times their body length, each individual wing being their body length plus a head or so on average. Ponies were roughly similar in terms of proportion. Given that a pony standing on their hind legs would be five feet and change to Handy, with a griffon slightly taller than that when upright made the average wingspan in and around fifteen or sixteen feet. Those wings didn't look that huge when folded up, but the reality was they were quite the beasts. And Shortbeak's wingspan was… larger than average. The bizarre nature of this world allowed flying creatures, griffons and pegasi et al, to fly with their wings in… unusual positions. He had seen griffons glide with their wings at half extension, flapping them only on occasion and remaining airborne. He had seen pegasi do something similar, their wings still folded but raised at their sides, 'cupping' the air with each wingbeat and still maintaining flight. He couldn't for the life of him figure out how it all worked.
 
He had seen Shortbeak herself during the duel pull her heavily-armoured weight into the air with ease and hover there for a time, her wings hardly moving. He didn't understand how magic interacted with their flight, and truth be told, that was the last thing on his mind when Shortbeak extended a wing longer than he was tall.
 
Sure enough, there was a rather large and nasty bit of wood stuck in the arm of her wing. He was unfamiliar with griffon anatomy to know the precise names and locations, but he was pretty sure it was the winged equivalent to getting stabbed in the bicep. He drew in breath through his teeth in sympathy for the pain.
 
"Okay yes, I see. Even if I couldn't help, there was no way I was letting thee leave with that still stuck in thy wing." No wonder she had reacted the way she did during the fight.
 
"Look, if you're going to do what— Aaaah!" And just like that, the stoic mask was dropped. She had her eyes closed and had huffed as she spoke. She hadn’t seen Handy as he casually strolled up, grabbed her wing, and pulled the broken wood out of her flesh, quickly stifling the blood flow with towels as he put pressure on the area of her wing, while at the same time trying to prevent her from snapping it shut, a not inconsiderable task. One did not go about life with nearly nine feet of wing strapped to your body without it becoming very strong.
 
"You—! You little—!" she spluttered, claws balled into gryphonic fists, her eyes wide with the shock and pain. She was going to shout invective and probably grab the human before… she felt something strange, a tingling sensation that hugged the flesh beneath her feathers. It was not altogether unpleasant, she found. The bleeding stopped, and eventually the white of the towels the human was holding over her injured wing ceased turning red. She felt the tension and ache of her wing lessen.
 
"Try closing your wing now; keep the pressure on that towel," he instructed calmly before stepping back. She did so tentatively, her wing pressing the towel against her side, keeping that warm, wonderful feeling where once there was pain. "Give it a few minutes. The cut has already healed but thy muscles might need a bit of time to feel like normal again."
 
"What… What did you do?" she asked, looking back at her wing cautiously. He shook his head dismissively.
 
"Don’t worry about it." He wiped the blood off of his hands on another hand towel, eyed it for a moment, before casually tossing it towards a wall. He picked up his pack and hammer and made his way to the door, idly kicking away the bloody piece of wood as he went. "Now ordinarily, thou wouldst have every right to break my arm for that. But then, ordinarily, most people would have the sense to have someone who knew what they were doing look after their wing. See you tomorrow, provided Johan doesn't send me off to the back end of nowhere."
 
"…Right. Tomorrow then," she murmured, gently prodding the problem area of her wing under the towel, wincing slightly at the few jolts of pain she got, each less than the last. She eyed the bloody piece of wood that had pierced her wing, and her wing twitched unconsciously at the thought of it having been lodged in her flesh. She considered it for some time after he had left before lifting her wing and removing the towel.
 
Sure enough, it stopped bleeding, and the wound had closed over. She extended the wing and turned it over to inspect the other side. The action did not so much as even cause a twinge of pain. The bloody towel in her claws was soaked through with red. What had he done to it that could heal a wound like that? Was that how he kept recovering so quickly? What else could it heal?
 
The thoughts ran in circles around her head for a few moments longer before she bundled the towel in her claws and flapped her wings at her sides experimentally. He had been right—it felt good as new. Wonderful even. Briefly she thought back to the healer she had been sent to seek out. She found her and had brought her back, but even she could not hope to have healed a wound like this so quickly, to bring it back to health and normality so fast. Perhaps she could…
 
No. She did not know him enough, and did not dare trust him far enough to broach the matter.
 
But still… the proof was in her claws. She clutched the towel in a claw and then made her way out, putting the thoughts to the back of her mind.