“... From dusk 'til dawn! I'll drink to the health of me friends! I'll drink to the health of me friends!” A clear, high soprano rang out across the diseased wasteland of the fallen Equestria. The voice carried with it a rich, heavy brogue that spoke of the central Griffin Kingdom. The voice came from a griffin hen, a muscular, but shapely, hen of the bald eagle type. She was dressed in open-toed cloth traveling boots and heavy wild oryx leather trousers and a shirt of the same. She also had oryx leather gloves. On her back was a large, heavy cloak of green cloth, in a perfect square. It was held shut with a clasp shaped like a Claddagh.

Any woman traveling alone in the fallen land was unusual. A woman with no collar more so. One in trousers was shocking and disgusting. But a griffin meant that trouble was brewing. When a griffin showed up in the lands the caribou claimed there could only come bloodshed.

With the rebel duchies still actively pressing their insurgency against the High King, almost all the griffins remained at home to fight for their side. And with the caribou giving material and military support to the insurgents any unattended griffins were not looked on favorably if they were not with official caribou envoys.

The woman, however, seemed supremely unconcerned with the political realities. She seemed quite content to loudly sing her homeland's drinking songs. She wasn't even really marching along. It was more of a rambling amble along the pitted and scarred dirt road that wound through the once-beautiful land.

The loud singing, by a female voice, attracted plenty of notice. The accent made it even more clear that something was up. Those that had heard it began pursuing the track of the unconcerned voice. It was a group of lightly armored caribou soldiers, six of them, looking like a scouting party, slavecatching group or light infantry. They were quite an anomaly, being all caribou. Since the fall of certain important bucks at the Battle of Paddock Fifty-One the Heartless Hind had decreed that caribou remain in more secure positions while he sent ponies to die en masse for him.

The caribou charged over a low hill and onto the road, loosely surrounding the casual, unconcerned hen as she sang her way along the road. “... The bog down in the valley- oh...” she sang, a smile crossing her beak. “Well now, hullo there, ya white and tans. And what can a servant of the High King do fer ye?”

“In the name of his supreme and pitiless invincible majesty who rules this land you are under arrest for the crime of being free while female! Surrender yourself to us for processing!” the lead caribou cried.

“Are ya daft? 'Tis a strange crime ta be sure. Have ye got it right, then? I do have business about, and can't take up the time coshering wi' any folk, least of all créadóirs, ol' buaileam sciaths and especially nasty little amadáns. There are serious things about!” The hen cried.

“Such disgusting filth!” The leader spat, lashing his hand out to slap the hen across the face. Her head followed the slap but she did not react. “Take her! We'll question her about this. She must be a counter-insurgent if she's talking about the High King. The rebellious fool.”

“Oi! None of that! That's my king yer rubbishin' there, boyo! And I do not hold wi' that!” the hen screeched. “It's his land and he should keep it if he still wants it! He won't be handin' it off ta yer king as long as he has breath in 'im ta fight ya white and tans.”

The caribou slapped the hen again, repeatedly, and punched her in the stomach. The others rushed in and grabbed her securely, tearing off her cloak and making the clasp fall to the ground. They tore at her clothes but found the leather hard to harm. They mostly just jostled her around. “Take her to the interrogation space! She will talk. Then she will break.”

“You'll be makin' a day of yer own neck if ya keep on like that, boyo,” the hen spat, speaking with a slight huskiness.

“Silence! Females do not speak unless tortured!” the leader said, marching along back from whence the group had come.

Over a rise appeared a burned waste. It looked like it had once been a small homestead, but the house had been razed and burned. The charred skeletons of several figures, twisted by the throes of death in the fire, could be seen through a broken wall. It looked like an extended family, of all ages. The only things still mostly together were the double-doors to the cellar.

The lead caribou pulled the doors open and unleashed the fetid stench of blood, infection, charred flesh and undiluted death. Down the stone stairs the place got darker and darker, until the sunlight just barely illuminated indistinct features in the cellar. A few scrapes of flint on steel lit some very primitive torches, and lit up the location.

In the center of the room was a wooden table, absolutely covered in bloodstains of various ages. Chains extended for the four corners, ending in heavy iron shackles with shout locks. On the shelves of the room were implements of torture, along with bottles and pouches of materials to induce agony, hallucinations or anything else needed. An empty, bloody cage sat in each corner, braziers beneath each other them, charred flesh still visible clinging to the metal.

“Aye... now I take the lessons about how the place has changed. I came here when I was a wee chick. It was nice. This... this is far from nice. I don't suppose we could skip it all and just get me back to the border? They'll let me through just fine,” the hen said. “Just tell 'em Maureen sen Kate O'Bald wants ta go home and they'll take me in and end yer hasslin'.”

“We don't broker deals with counter-insurgents!” The lead caribou shouted, slapping Maureen across the face again.

“Aye, that much was clear. Yer makin' two days of yer neck, boyo...” Maureen muttered as the caribou pulled at her leather clothing, managing to yank the shirt and trousers off, then pulling her gloves off. In her thrashing, she raked her freed talons across the throat of the caribou stripping her, making him fall back choking and sputtering as blood sprayed.

“You'll pay for that, worthless griffin cunt!” The leader screamed, punching Maureen repeatedly in the bare belly and chest.

“'Twas a mistake! Me talons just do that!” Maureen gasped, head shaking. “He got too close and that happened.”

“Secure her!” The caribou rushed to obey the orders, shoving Maureen down onto the table, shackling her wrists securely, and being scratched up by her twitching talons, then shackling her legs without pulling off her boots, not liking the look of her lion paws.

“So now... ye have me. The griffin hen in yer cozy little basement. I'd imagine ye don't have much chance to leave here, am I right?” Maureen asked with an amused tone, hiding her pain very well.

“You griffin cunts are smart-mouthed. They had you held down but not enough. They still taught you how to talk,” The lead caribou snarled, spitting in Maureen's face.

“They done a damn sight more than teach me to talk, ye rank bastard,” Maureen grumbled under her breath.

“What was that? I didn't hear that!” The fists flew, punching the restrained and helpless captive. “You're going to talk? Then talk loud enough that we can hear it! That way we can properly punish you for it.”

“Clean out yer filthy ears, ya white and tans, and I'll tell ya all ye may want to know. Maybe more than ye ever thought ye'd know,” Maureen said, loud and clear, spitting a glob of bloody saliva onto the ground. “Because I have a plan, to get back to what ye interrupted. A plan to get out of all this.”

“Oh do you? Yes, you uppity women types always think you have a plan,” the lead caribou said.

“Right before the collars come on and your wings come off,” another said, taking up a curved knife.

“You need to learn the place for your kind,” A third said. “Barn, Kjøkken, Kirke.”

“And just what is that scat?” Maureen asked, looking fearless despite the threatening tools approaching.

“Children, Kitchen, Worship,” The leader said brusquely. “You will make the next generation of torturers and flesh puppets, serve in menial and subjugated roles and worship men like the gods we are and the King as god of gods.”

“Well no wonder you can't make a decent land, ye got half yer lot wastin' their time on rubbish,” Maureen quipped.

“You won't think so when you're mewling for sex and begging to be tortured. Some do,” one caribou said.

“Ahh ye white and tans... know why our end calls ye that? 'Tis a good tale,” Maureen said cheerily. “Used to be we were calling yer lot the black and tans, from yer tan coats and black hearts. But we've also got a drink named that and we weren't about ta have us givin' ye good press. So, we noticed on the dead that some parts are white so there it goes. Ye've also got lily white livers and spleens that couldn't muster up a drop if we squeezed the whole lot of you.”

The caribou flew to work, punching her across the whole of her body, with all the force they could while she couldn't protect herself. “You're very chatty for someone about to be tortured. Good. It shows how much you deserve it.”

“Oh aye? This is the power and pride of ye white and tans? Punchin' up a hen that can't throw up a defense and torturin' women so they can't compete? Oh, the power you have,” Maureen said, with a twinge of pain.

“Yes, we have power!” the lead caribou snarled, slapping Maureen several times. “Bring the blades. We'll save the skinning if we can avoid it. We should focus on the wing-removal.”

“But I never even told ye the plan,” Maureen said, glaring at the caribou. “And yer up another day on yer neck.”

“Shut up. You'll speak when you're broken. You'll tell us anything,” the lead caribou insisted.

One of the other caribou came up with a thick rubber gag, and reached for Maureen's beak. Her head moved like lightning, deftly snapping the razor-sharp edge and her teeth on the soft flesh of his wrist. The buck's screams echoed through the basement as all the vessels of his left arm were ripped open and out, pouring with blood in hot pulses with each beat of his heart.

“That was intentional, I don't like rot in my beak,” Maureen said, after spitting out the flesh and blood. “Thus spitting that out. We did consider eating you lot. But just like yer ideas yer flesh is all bitter, diseased and rotten.”

“Now you've done it. Accidents happen and foolish bucks die when they fail to take precaution with unbroken cunts. But the violent soon learn of the powers that we have. We know how to deal with you,” the lead caribou growled darkly.

“You haven't a clue. That screamin' idiot will be dead even if he claps somethin' on it. Nothing in here is clean and I doubt you lot have medicine that could fix a ragin' infection. See what happens when yer too stupid to even consider you might get hurt? How did you love so long up where ye did?” Maureen asked.

“We were strong and ruthless. We do not need fancy technology or womanly things such as art, beauty, comfort or complicated cooking,” the lead caribou spat, punching Maureen in the beak.

“Addin' days, you are,” Maureen snarled, spitting out more blood. “But there's still a plan, and it works and all.”

“No!” The leader shouted, motioning to Maureen. “No more plans or smart talk. We will leave your beak clear. All the better to hear your screams and pitiful cries for mercy! Now come here and begin the torture!”

“S-sir... she may need... starvation, or solitude. She's...” One of the remaining caribou stammered out.

“You filthy does!” The leader shrieked. “Do you want to be reassigned?”

The remaining three shivered at the threat. “No, sir...” they mumbled in unison.

“Then bring your blades here and cut her wings off. Just as it must be,” the leader demanded.

“Y-yes sir...” one of the blade-carrying, fearful bucks said. He positioned himself at an arm's length from Maureen, looking with trembling fear into her smiling face. He made an attempt to cut at Maureen's wing but couldn't touch it, because it pulled and waved out of reach.

“You! Hold the wing down,” the leader yelled to one just standing around watching.

The hesitant buck likewise came in to arm's reach, but found the wing slipped from his grasp. He had to get near the table to spread it out and hold it down securely. He watched the wing and the talons on her hands, which clawed and flexed, still showing the blood on the hand which had been used.

With the focus on the wing, and the nervous buck tentatively bringing the knife closer and closer, none noticed her legs. Her toes vanished from the open front of the boots as she made a lot of noise, rattling the chains attached to her wrist shackles. She carefully wiggled her feet through the narrow openings of the shackles, compressing them down without harm and pulling them from the boots.

At the first touch of steel on her wing Maureen sprang into action. Her body pulled up, bent almost double as she pulled on her wrist shackles for leverage. She did it with such rapidity that none of the caribou around could react. The one nearest to her, the one holding her wing, releasing a wet gurgle as her leonine toe-claws raked up his throat. The one holding the knife dropped it and fell backwards, just avoiding a similar fate, though his throat took a nasty nick.

The three caribou still living backed far away from Maureen as she continued to bend herself double. Her right foot's toes pressed against the lock of the right shackle and wiggle a little bit. The lock popped open with a click and she pulled her arm over to work on the other shackle. “Know why wearin' the traditional brat is so good? Not just the status. It's the clasp. Usin' a pin-clasp may be tacky but if it falls by yer feet...” She pulled her other hand up once she was free and showed off what she had been using. The Claddagh clasp from her cloak, with the pin part sticking out from the back.

“Impossible! Stop her! There are still three of us and she's only a woman!” The leader shouted, hanging back as he directed the last two.

“'Only a woman,' boyo? A woman, aye...” Maureen didn't bother to try anything. She used the hesitation of the bucks to press a lightning attack. Her talons dug fiercely into their throats and she pulled back quickly, sending out a shower of blood to spatter on her bared body. “But 'only'? There's a lot more to me than just 'only.'”

The leader looked at his small group. The one with the bitten arm was the only one left, and he was uselessly sitting in a corner, moaning as blood seeped ceaselessly into a filthy rag that had once been clothing. He picked up one of the knives used for skinning and rushed at Maureen. “Insolent cu-!”

“And no more of that!” Maureen screamed, interrupting him. She dodged his basic attack and grabbed the hand with the knife. She slammed it onto the table hard enough to break his wrist and force the knife from his grip. She then bum rushed him to the wall and slammed him into it, hard enough to knock his breath out. “Ya listenin' to me? I'll bet ya wanna know what it is that has happened. How it is that a griffin hen has got the best of you, bein' caribou and all ye thought that it would be easy.”

The final caribou ground his teeth and hissed as he hid the pain of his shattered wrist, struggling with all his might against Maureen but not shifting her an inch. “You... you foolish woman. You will never get away with this...”

“Shut yer gob, I'm talkin'!” Maureen screeched. She cleared her crop and put a smile on her face as she went on. “Well I'll tell you. When them... rebel dukes went all crazy fer yer ways and yer little drootheen of a king and thought they could turn traitor on the High King they fought like they had won. They didn't. They were halted. There's a good reason fer that.

“Ya see... when they turned traitor most of the RGA didn't. I say most and I mean it. The big, important parts remained faithful. And ya may not know it, boyo, but there are plenty of parts in there, beyond the simple marchin' claws and paws. They got some special ones.

“Like them High Crag Guards in their kilts. The caribou that had come up to direct the fight laughed at that. Called them women just because of their kit. Pointed at the sporrans and tams and asked if they were gonna be on the abuse menu. The High Crag guard showed them they fought like a thousand angry hornets. Sent their heads back across the border, hornless, eyeless, tongueless, and marked, 'Aerie the Brave.'

“Or the low-land ones, the Ice-Rill Guards. They were never thought of well. Just herders, keepin' pigs and domesticated deer and other food-beasts. They couldn't be a danger. But a food-beast brings that what wants the food. They whetted their beaks and talons on slavering timberwolves, and cragodiles, the odd misplaced quarray eel, wandering ursa or young hydra. They weren't afraid of the beasts that came just to kill and be gone. They didn't back away from beasts that came to kill and stay, as the next caribou found when they thought they could be intimidated.

“But above and beyond, there's one that is suicide to anger. And yer lot angered them. They call 'em the Tuatha dé Danann. Those, those are the elites, boyo. Those are the ones that make the High King proudest. And as ya look at me, yer eyes full of pain and yer heartless chest full of hate, ya wonder. Aye, it's so. I'm a Tuatha.

“Within the Tuatha there's a group, all hens. The Sinn Bean. They call us the Bean Sidhe. When ya see a hen where there ought not be a hen, where they'd blood and fire and death, ya hope ta whatever it is ya send yer hopes to that she ain't a Tuatha. Because when the Bean Sidhe comes a-keenin' fer you, then yer already gone.

“And so it is...” Maureen said, tightening her grip on the caribou, using her knowledge of pressure points to make him cry out in sudden pain, “Ya come to the end of this short, bloody, meaningless life ya had. Or maybe... maybe ya don't...”

“What... do you mean... bitch..?” the caribou grunted out, still holding a defiant hatred in his eyes as he squirmed in pain.

“Ya recall how I kept talkin' of yer neck? There's an old curse from where I come. We'd always say, 'May Discord cut the head off of you, and make a day's work of yer neck.' The angrier, the more days ya cursed on 'em. It just meant we wished that them that did us wrong didn't get out of it so quick or so painless. So... yer the leader, but you don't get to go as fast as the rest of them,” Maureen said, calmly and evenly.

“Just what are you- Argh!” The caribou let out a scream as Maureen's iron grip broke his other wrist, and agonized the already-broken one. One paw came up and crashed down on one knee, pushing it back so far it snapped, while her talons raked out the kneecap.

She dropped the helpless buck to the ground and went over to the one still partially alive. She cleanly snapped his neck before returning to the one screaming and swearing on the ground. “You get to be here alone.”

“No... no, I am a caribou. I am a male! I am of the master race, and the master gender! I am the peak of all the universe! The commander of all nature!” The agonized buck screamed out his objections as Maureen dragged him to a far cage over a cold brazier.

“Command this not to hold you,” Maureen said flatly as she opened the cage and stuffed the screaming buck inside. She closed it, locked it and stood up. Thinking for a moment, she grabbed a nearby knife and jammed it into the lock, ruining the works and breaking off a bit of the brittle caribou-made metal. “How's yer kingdom, commander of all nature?”

The caribou attempted to rattle the cage but found it hurt his broken wrists. “You're just like us! Now don't you see how right we are! Join our cause, serve willingly and see all the suffering you want!”

“Are you mad?!” Maureen shrieked. “Even if I thought like you, joining means I'd get plucked and beaten. I'm no fool! What kind of mad claitseach would ever give in to that? No, no, ya feic, I'm killin' you like this not because it makes my parts all moist and soft, but because you deserve it.”

Maureen casually dressed herself again, after wiping off as much of the blood as she could manage, all with the indignant screams of the caribou as background. She walked out of the basement without a look back and securely slammed the doors shut, silencing all the cries. She then rammed a stout bit of loose metal into the handles to prevent easy opening from within.

Her deeds done, Maureen got back out onto the road, looking as though nothing had happened, save the for the remaining blood flecks. She seemed in as good a spirits as ever, as she jauntily went down the road to rendezvous with the rebel group that would take her to the Black Knight. She was there to train up the rebel forces, by order of the High King, so they could possibly lend aid faster.

She ambled a long the rocky road to her meeting, singing a cheerful song. “Come out, ye white and tans, come and face us if ya can! Show yer king how earned death at the border! Some 'im how the RGA made ye run so fast away from the gray and lovely crags of ancient Tara!”

Author's Note

Notes on slang

Coshering- Going on a friendly, chatty visit to a friend's house. Here being used very insincerely.

Créadóir- Literally a potter; metaphorically someone who sits all day like a potter at the wheel; a lazy good for nothing.

Buaileam Sciath- Literally it means 'Let us beat our shield.' It indicated a boastful nothing, who fights when drunk and has nothing to speak for him.

Amadán- A fool.

Barn, Kjøkken, Kirke- A literal translation into Norwegian of the German 'Kinder, Küche, Kirche,' more properly rendered as 'Children, Kitchen, Church.' The 'ideal position' for Aryan women during the Fascist period.

Drootheen- A name for a slug, and a slang term for a tiny penis.

Tuatha dé Danann- The name for the mythical ancestors of the fairy-kind in Ireland, fierce warriors that fought the ancestors of the modern Irish.

Sinn Bean- Butchered Irish (on my part) for “We women.”

Claitseach- Slut

Feic- Literally 'a sight.' An embarrassing little man, an object of derision.