Gryphonia Freezes

“What news from the east, Guile?”

“Ugh.” My eyes rolled up dramatically. As if they didn't know.

“There's this thing we like to call procedure, and it's there so that everybody is on the same page when we make rulings,” Jude scolded, “If you intend to stay on this council, I suggest you follow it, and kill the sarcasm.”

“Yes, your ancientness.”

He scowled, despite his own warnings.

“Cold.”

Silence.

After a few seconds, someone inquired; “Was that a smart comment, or an answer?”

“Both.”

Exasperated glances shot about the room,  punctuated by a soft but firm “details?”

“The ponies are moving south. They apparently don't feel like dying of starvation is worth sticking around this pit for. All three tribes are separated, and judging by past experience, only the Pegasus’ commander seems mildly useful militarily. I wouldn’t extend any of them the status of 'competent'. If we're going to take out Puddinghead’s or Platinum’s tribes, we should move as soon as they get to the south marches. Hurricaine may warrant a bit of finesse, but as I said; mildly useful, not competent. Still, they should be the first target, as they are the only ones who might break ranks and aid another tribe.

“Finally, something proceeding from your mouth has a bit of value,” Jude said, “You may be seated.”

“Also, it is still cold. Colder than last week, colder than last month, and than last year. I think I’ve spotted a trend.”

“Sit down.”