The black void of oblivion rests on your eyes. You feel as if you have been swimming in it for a small eternity, like a baby in its womb. All of a sudden, the void rips open. Blinding angelic shine swarms your vision, like a light from the heavens. Figures present themselves towards you, perhaps the gods themselves, hailing you like the newborn child of Eden. Then, as if a great weight had been thrusted upon you, you suddenly start descending. Quite quickly, you realize.
As the clouds with their perfectly snow white sheen part to give way, there comes into view a great and majestic mountain. Its jagged and perfectly vertical peak seemingly touch the realm of the divine from whence thou camest. Crashing with a thunderous thud, your unharmed body shows no evidence of your crime of causing the massive crater where the once grand pillar of the world stood, reduced to mere rubble.
A whirlwind of emotions fluxes through your mind: a twinge of melancholy for what you did, a sense of nostalgia seeping as the structure felt familiar, but most of all a feeling of dread on what all had occurred in just the past half minute. From utter darkness to radiant brilliance to shattering what looked like a wonder of the world by crashing into it headfirst. As an eerie silence threatens to settle in, a voice calls out. An awfully familiar one.
"So you are heading to Solarspike, are you? When did my little brother get so big?", the voice seemed to say with a giggle at the end.
"It will not be an easy feat Johann. You will have to trek for days to reach the tower of the gods. You may feel like giving up on ever reaching it. Just remember what I always told you, won't you?", the voice asked.
"Yes Edith!", another voice cries out. You gasp inaudibly in horror as you realize they are coming from you.
"I shall sing the song you taught me to keep me company and relish the delicious food you made for me. A happy stomach and a happy mind will make any griff smile.", you continue to speak. A salty taste—the first thing you tasted since coming 'here'—enters your mouth. You realize you have been crying.
"Very good Johann! Always remember, no matter what, a griff's best friend in times of need is a smile. If you can keep smiling, you will get through any thing life throws at you. Because if you can remain happy, then the problems were never problems to begin with. Just mere stepping stones to your destination."
The voices stop. You try to cry out, but no voices escape from you this time. Your mouth quivers, on the verge of a breakdown, as you realize you know this place. The voice—Edith— said so.
"Solarspike."
You startle at the sound, your mouth seeming to work again for a brief moment. Yes, what you crashed into—as you descended from above—was indeed Solarspike. The beacon of the gods. The home of the Griffons. Your destination.
You were meant to come here. To pray for your family. For your village.
For your sister.
As the ramifications of your garbled memories set in, you suddenly get the urge to return.
Return...where?
Home.
As you try to wrack your brain due to this sudden bi-polarity, your legs move on your own. As if you were not quite in your own body, but in a younger, nimbler one.
You sprint down a path, the crater of your design disappearing behind you beyond the horizon, the scenery starting to shift. Lone stretches of arid planes and empty fields give way to houses and sheds, the beginnings of a village. You recognize this as your home.
As you slow to a halt, you feel—for the first time—a cool splat on your beak. It was raining, yet the rain was anything but ordinary. The drop on your beak was a dark maroon, and it oozed the smell of rotten eggs. Really rotten eggs.
You look up. The rain picks up speed. The winds howl in your face. They howl in your ears. But nothing howls more than the silent thumps of your heart against your chest. Even as the rain pours down on you, forming intricate patterns upon the curves of your face and beak as it washes down your face, you do not blink. The sky has turned a crimson red, the blood soaked rain is heavy with the smell of sulphur; threatening to choke anyone that chooses to remain under this artillery from Tartarus itself.
And yet, you do no budge. You do not need to, and you tense up melancholically at that. This has already happened, you think. I survived this, you realize.
As you refocus your gaze on your home, your legs pick up again. This time, you are not surprised. Rather, you are terrified. You remember where this is going to lead. You know you will see her again, if only wrapped in the arms of Boreas.
At peace, with a smile on her face.
Just an arms length away as you fall to your knees.
So far away.
Up ahead in the distance, the lone grizzled visage of the statue of Grover I marks the city of Griffonstone, his proudly admonishing gaze like a challenge to your suffering. As if the bombardment of nature was on his orders; such was his power felt.
Fresh tears start to descend from your eyes, but they jerk to a hold when your irises inadvertently blink hard. Another blinding light seems to rip right through this godforsaken memory. Another voice speaks up, this time a grown male griff speaking in a calm rustle of a voice, as if trying to wake up a chicken. Everything seems to be happening backwards than it did at the start: you lift towards the heavens again as you feel a sense of drowsiness seep through your body; as if this state of gestation from earlier and now is like a gate between the world within and the world outside.
As you begin to return to the land of the living, you take a final gander at the crumbled houses below, the full destruction of your village and Griffonstone visible. You realize with a convulsive shudder that this will not be the last time you will relive this nightmare again.
That face he makes is really starting to scare me, for more than one reason.
A rather unnatural thought to have when the muzzle of a gun is pointed at your face. Or it would be, had it been the first time this occurred.
The incessant chirp of the crickets echoed throughout the log cabin, as it did on most nights, and as it had a few minutes earlier. As usual, it had failed to cover up the groaning sounds emanating from the beak of my sleeping fellow tenant.
I tossed and turned to drown out the noise coming from him that sounded like the wailing of a child calling his mother. My eyes cracked open a wee bit from the noise to see the moon casting a shimmering glow on his face through the broken slits of the window blinds, illuminating the face of my friend I had known since we were little; and who's horrified ramblings in his sleep continue to disturb my sleep ever since.
Eventually I gave up and arose from my bed to comfort him as I have done almost every night since we have lived together. I gently patted him on his chest, shaking him a bit while increasing the intensity of the action every five seconds and calling out his name periodically. After quite a while of doing so, his eyes at last flickered open. Amber eyes, illuminated by moon light, surrounding an obsidian pupil stared back at me with an incredulous look like a night owl.
His claws, freed from sleep paralysis abnormally quick, whip to the bedside table where his trusted revolver rests; and aligned the barrel with my head.
All in the space of a second.
Classic Virgil, I mentally whistled.
I know he won't shoot. However addled his mind may be, whether from sleep or being drunk, his confidence in his trigger finger is remarkably accurate.
So I waited for him to calm down and orient himself. His face was a contortion of mental anguish and some sort of deep rooted paranoia that he usually kept locked behind a mask of a jubilant grin. I know because moments like these are more frequent than others who know him realize: the moments when his smile falters and something else surfaces. I pray that its only because of these nightmares, but I have lived in the Frontier long enough to know the difference between mental anguish and true psychopathy.
Regardless, once he realized its me, he lowers his gun promptly. Sweat drips from his face as his eyes juggle between the feelings of fear and shame.
"It's ok", I mumbled and get up to open the window to let some fresh air in. The sunrays peak just beyond the horizons above the mountains that dot the region, reflecting a golden ray from the snow that envelops them. A cool wind drifts in from valley, as if bringing the joy of new year to the Frontier.
I took a deep breath, accepting this invitation from nature gratefully. The Frontier has always been an extreme place: its jagged mountains form a natural barrier to catch the wind, resulting in a frigid climate almost all year around. The scarce vegetation not only negate the possibility of large scale farming, it also provides no shelter from the elements around. Which, combined with the altitude of the mountains, means getting blasted all day long by the scorching heat of the sun as well.
The beauty of nature lies in its mercy eh...
"It is peculiarly calm today, isn't it?", I said while slowly turning towards Virgil. Although he still looked frazzled, his feathers a complete mess, he managed to reply back.
"Yes. It's as if Boreas is watching over us. Not often does the sky turn an azure blue like today," Virgil said with a contemplative look on his face.
I turned back to the window, resting my arms on its stool.
"Is that what you dreamt about this night? The sky?"
Virgil looked like he was about to lie but he knew I wouldn't believe him. So when he responded with what I can only think as some sort of quarter-baked lie tinged with a heavy dose of sleep hallucination, I couldn't help but laugh heartily.
"I dreamt that Grover the First shelled my home with a barrage of rain."
My legs gave out after a while, still reeling from laughter, while I tried to control myself to pry further into the mind of my great friend. After all these years of "assistance", this was by far the best answer out of them all.
"S—kekekekeke—so... So you mean to say the Conqueror himself ordered a shelling of your home? And that too with a shower of rain? I don't know what's crazier: The fact that he is actually divine enough to control the rain or that he deemed you a threat to consider destroying you with extreme prejudice. Ah brother, that is truly a story to tell the gang about. Speaking of which, I hope you remember what is today."
"Yes yes Nigel, the big party down at the Big Bess. I will be there," he replied dismissively.
With that tone, I knew he is going somewhere alone again. I always wonder where he goes in these moments and if it has anything to do with his "condition", which seemed to have increased in frequency quite a bit recently. Nevertheless, I bade him farewell for the moment as he decided to sleep in a little while.
Once I finished my morning routine, I got ready to head out. Before leaving, I once again check on Virgil; his snores echoed contently throughout the house when I opened the bedroom door. With a quaint curve on my beak, I satisfactorily close the door again and prepare to head out.
The full blast of the morning wind washed over me as I step out of my house. I took in another deep breathe: the circulation of the chill wind in my body invigorating me for the day. Its always a somber moment for me when I open my front door and gaze at the mountains over yonder. The cliffside where we reside overlooks the valley, providing a scenic view every morning. Theoretically that is; it is often too dull and cloudy with a touch of hail to truly appreciate it from this high altitude.
Once I finished revitalizing in the morning gale, I started towards a semi-hidden path to the back of the house; my gun holstered readily with the safety off. The forests behind us provided wood as well as shelter from prying eyes of the roving bands of cannibals that roamed the region. The Frontier is a difficult place after all, with resources far and few in between. One must always take great care from troubles both externally and internally, lest they end up like these mad griffs.
I found the path I was looking for and start strolling towards my destination: the main square of the city of Frosthill. I say city, but it was merely a settlement that functioned as a vital point for the colonial govt. in Weter to connect the jigsaw that is Nova Griffonia. A collection of government buildings, some establishments and a number of ramshackle shacks that functioned as houses. No respectable bandit lived here; if you did, you were either lucky to have a profitable business, too poor and weak to rely on banditry or had enough bits to relax a night in one of the many leisure establishments which consisted most of Frosthill's economy.
I walked for a long time but the refreshing nature around me made it bearable. The coniferous shrubs soon morphed into deciduous trees and vegetation, signaling my arrival in the city soon after. As I reached the outskirts, I took in the unusual glamour of the city today that, for the most part of the year, remained somewhat barely functional.
The streets were unnaturally packed but it was without concern. It was New Year after all, and many gangs called a New Year Truce to celebrate surviving another year, allowing most hiding and scared civilians of Frosthill to get it on and celebrate.
Mostly by getting drunk and partying.
And sometimes engaging in civil acts of nuisance (they are bandits after all)
But mostly by getting drunk at the only tavern in town: good ol' Big Bess.
The intensity of the crowd in Frosthill was due to another peculiarity of our strange nation: the culture that thrived here was a strange yet interesting fusion of many sub-cultures from the Griffon home continent. Everything from Aquilean wine, to Karthinian food and delicacies and even some Herzlandic plays and acts. The city truly came alive during this time of the year.
There was a reason to this chaos of course, and a tragic one at that. But it was never a story unique to this part of the world: an empire in collapse led to thousands of refugees seeking to flee their burning homes.
Some searched out safety
Others ventured out for fortunes.
Family. Warmth. Comfort.
Power.
And they all came here: to the edge of Griffonkind. Not many by choice: most refugees that landed in Weter or any other port of Nova Griffonia were sent to the Frontier to fend for themselves by the government, unless they brought enough with themselves to afford to change this destiny. Leading to a unique blend of traditions and culture that unfortunately only seemed to show itself once a year.
Banditry was common, and in some cases the best way to survive. The Frontier ate itself up every year, only to then show up back from the dead every New Year to celebrate another year of slow bloodletting.
One day, the Frontier will rise like the dead to feast on the carcass of the Empire. Remember that, Nigel, I chuckled internally, remembering Virgil's ramblings. But hardly do I discount them or toss them aside easily.
Among the crowd, I find another one of our gang members. Not just any, but one of mine and Virgil's closest friend: Diana Skyfeather. She was part of the First Fives, a group of elites in our band (that included me as well) who knew Virgil since before we came to the colony and formed the first iteration of the gang together, called the Raiders. We had been through thick and thin together and knew each other like the back of our claws.
"Look who flew in today!" she greets me. "Why, its the good ol' chief advisor of the Raiders. Here for some fun, my love? I thought your boyfriend gave you enough of that," she squawked in a mocking tone.
This was, of course, not the first time she or anyone made fun of me and Virgil together, nor would it be the last.
So why was I, a Frontier veteran at this point, feeling flustered again as I answered her stutteringly:
" I—I walked all the way here Diane! I haven't the slightest wish to miss a morning walk through the forest in such good weather as today. And—"
"You got that right honey, the sky has never looked so tantalizing today than it usually does. Maybe the pegasi refugees are behind this? If so, I need to buy them a bottle at the party tonight. Speaking of which, is your boyfriend coming or no," her eyes fluttered in a mocking sultry fashion.
"I have told you a million times D, there is nothing like that between us. Would you please stop embarrassing me?" I sighed at her.
"I would stop if YOU stopped making it so obvious my dear friend," she turned around while chuckling at me.
I sighed once more in finality, giving up on ever letting this tale rest. I instead head with her to Big Bess to meet up with the rest of the gang, talking about the award ceremony to be held later and the chances of us to win on the way with Diana. I took a glance back to the mountain where our house resided, wondering what Virgil was doing and hoping he would reach in time, and then turned back to enter the tavern finally.
The unusually bright glare of the sun that day casts a much blacker shade of shadow behind the golden-beaked griffon. Yet his amber eyes glare resolutely across the valley without flinching, covered by his brown hat upon which rest his steel glasses that he did not wear. For why would he on such a clear day; the air whooshing by with enough speed to take away the fresh tears that form in his eyes that would have instead clogged his glasses had he worn them.
After basking in the view for a long while, he turns around promptly to head to the small radio he had setup behind him, the noise of machinery an anomaly in the soundscape. Switching it on fully, he untangles the headphones connected to the device and presses them to his ears; drowning out any sounds of the environment around him to focus on the artificial tones that signaled him to wait still for the griffon on the other side. There was one voice, however, he could not block out.
"It is a beautiful day, unlike any I have seen in this desolate wasteland yet. Are you sure you didn't wish it for me?"—the voice laughs in a familiar giggle—"If so, I thank you. It was getting quite same-y for me too. Ah, the wind howls like it's rushing to meet me. I wish I could feel it gushing around me as it did so like before," it drawls wistfully.
Virgil pays no heed to it but he could imagine the figure besides him: standing with her eyes closed to the cliff edge with her wings outstretched, as if trying to catch a southerly wind home like a pack of migrating birds. Somewhere deep in him, he wishes for her to do just that: take the wind home and leave him alone. He had work to do.
"I suppose you want me to leave. Again," the voice laments with a sigh.
"I did not say that", he replies finally.
"You don't need to say it. I know."
Then, like an illusion half shattered, the voices manifests a hand that pulls Virgil away to face her. Her snow white feathers contrasts his cumulonimbus grey, but both fashion amber yellow eyes that sit around coal black pupils; gazing at each other in a trance. A silence befalls them as the wind dies down, finally letting the tears drip from the bandit's eyes. As his sight blurs from the water, he closes them in reflex and reopens them a while later to find no one in sight. The wind picks up again, a familiar melody playing like on them like the chords inside his mind.
Virgil picks up the headphones again and reattaches them to his ears, listening intently to drown out the noises again. Yet his beak starts humming the same tune in the air to calm his mind, like it always does.
