Predator

by Rinnaul

Rating: mature
Tags: Griffons, Dark, Gore, Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Horror
Length: 1658

Treaties forbid griffons from hunting ponies as they once did. Some prefer the old ways.

For generations, accords between Equestria and Griffony have forbidden griffons from hunting ponies or consuming their flesh. There are those among the griffons who find these concession distasteful, and talk of returning to the old ways, but most would not dare risk the wrath of the Princesses by violating the treaties.

Gaspard is not most griffons. He still has his pride.

And his prey.

(Oneshotober 2014—This character will feature prominently in To Be The King. Consider this a sort of origin story for him. Also, warning: People might find Gaspard's behavior more unsettling than the actual gore.)

Published 2014-09-24 05:10:07 UTC
Last updated 2014-09-24 05:10:07 UTC

Prey

The wind rushes through my crest and the feathers on my chest as I drift through the air. The sun is bright, and this desolate little corner of Equestria that I've adopted is full of clear terrain—lots of grasslands, lakes, and dry, rocky flats. The abundance of thermals generated by this combination of weather and terrain makes today nearly perfect for flying.

A relaxing day of flying isn't what I have in mind, though. I'm in Equestria for a reason.

Ponies dominate this whole region. There are more of them than any other race, nobody dares raise a claw against them, and even the oh-so-proud minotaurs grovel at the hooves of their princess. We even speak their language, for Ruhk's sake!

How many ponies even know we had our own language?

How many griffons?

It isn't even taught to the youth of Griffony anymore. It's considered an "academic interest" and preserved by a handful of eggheads in the halls of nobility. If we've surrendered so much of our culture to the will of Equestria that we forget our own language, I know there's no hope that anyone remembers our former relationship with the ponies.

They feared us, and we hunted them.

We are predators, and they our prey.

It's bad enough we let them believe they're exempt from the natural order simply because their horn-heads can use magic. But with each generation come new concessions.

First, we gave up hunting the ponies.

Then we gave up hunting buffalo.

Then the donkeys, the zebras, and even the cattle. Everything with hooves, we were forbidden.

What does a griffon eat now, then? Fish? Of course. Even the ponies will eat fish from time to time. That is, until one of them gets a talking-to-fish flank stamp. Then fish will be our friends, and it would be just awful to hurt one. Why not join us in a meal of grass and apples? Damned weaklings.

And now there are griffons—or, at least, griffon-shaped kittens—so desperate to please their tiny pastel overlords that they've even given up that. I don't care how good those nuts or fruit or bean-paste vomit from Neighpon are supposed to be, if you don't eat meat, you're not a predator; and if you're not a predator, you're not a griffon.

I am a griffon. I might even call myself something of a traditionalist. And I’ve found what I’m looking for.

I bank towards one of the few clouds in this part of the sky, alighting on it and ensuring I remain unseen as I study it. A mare, I think. Very small and slender, with a yellow coat and pink mane. At first, it seems she’s just a particularly small earth pony, but then she flutters her wings for a moment—a pegasus. Good. That makes it more fun. They tend to give the best chases.

I take off from the cloud and circle around until I’m in a position where she won’t notice my shadow over her until I’m too close, and then dive.

There's nothing quite like diving on prey.

It’s not just the exhilaration of the ground rushing up towards you, though that certainly carries a thrill of its own. The real draw of it is the realization of your own strength. That you hold this creature’s life in your talons. That they can do nothing to stop you. That you are their superior in every way. And that this is your natural place.

I’m getting close. I could angle upwards and snap her neck, killing her instantly, but I’m in the mood for sport. I adjust downward slightly and aim for her wings. Closer and closer, and she hasn’t even looked up yet.

Oh, foolish ponies. You’ve forgotten you’re prey for so long that you no longer know to defend yourselves.

I slam my talons into her back and both feel and hear the satisfying crunch as the fragile bones in her wings snap under the force of my dive. She screams. The impact buckles her legs and I slam her face into the ground. With her mouth open like that, I’m sure she ate some grass and dirt.

There, little pony. I’m being courteous.

I gave you a last meal.

I dig my talons into her back for good measure before I kick off again, ripping apart a chunk of skin and muscle, lean as it is, as I do. Even if I hadn’t clipped her wings on the first strike, the damage I did on takeoff would have grounded her.

I soar back up and circle once, considering what to do next. Do I hide behind a cloud again and leave her wondering what could have happened to her? Or do I remain in plain sight and give chase for a while?

Ah, she’s made the decision for me. You finally thought to look up, did you?

I’d say you learned a valuable lesson today, but you won’t have the chance to make use of it.

She’s pulling herself from the dirt and struggling to move, weeping all the while. How did we ever let such pathetic creatures think themselves our superiors?

A few staggering steps, and adrenaline is starting to numb her to the pain and steel her against the rapid blood loss. Her coat is as much red as yellow now, the blood flowing down her barrel and dripping onto the grass beneath her. And yet she’s somehow managing to run. Granted, it’s slow and stumbling, and I can see how pained her breathing is from here. But I’m impressed she made the effort.

I dive again.

She looks up and sees me coming. The look in her eyes is one of absolute terror. That feeling of power I mentioned before? This is when you really feel it. She knows how this is going to end.

I swoop down at her flank, but she throws herself to the side, rolling in the dirt to get away. Good move, little pony. If you hadn’t gotten away, I’d likely have broken that leg, and then this wouldn’t be any fun for either of us.

I use my momentum to wheel back up into the sky, watching her again. There’s a long smear of blood where she fell, and dirt covers that side of her body, sticking to the blood soaked into her coat. And she still pushes herself to her hooves. Even more shakily, now. I think that tumble took something out of her—beyond the blood loss.

She starts staggering away again, and I see where she’s been heading. There’s a rock pile a few dozen yards away, and I imagine she thinks she’ll be able to hide herself in there.

Another dive. I’m nearer the ground, now, and won’t build up quite as much speed. My talons will be more than enough, though. She doesn’t expect me to strike again so soon, and I’m nearly on top of her when she looks up again. She tries to throw herself to the side again, but her wounds are slowing her down too much, and I’m too close. My talons dig into her flesh, ripping apart skin and muscle, down deep enough to expose the bone. I’ve landed the blow right on her flank, and the mark there is obliterated. It seems to have been a group of small pink shapes, but I can’t tell what they were anymore, and I don’t really care, either.

I flap my wings a few time, giving her space once again, but she’s not moving. She’s just lying there, staring at the rock pile as she reaches for it with one forehoof.

I land nearby and approach. Her head snaps back to me, and she just stares at me. Her eyes are wide with fear, and tears stream from them constantly. She doesn’t say anything, instead weakly gasping for breath between her sobs.

“Aren’t you going to run any more, little pony?” I ask.

She starts to choke on her tears, now, the coughing sobs wracking her body the only response I get. I wonder if I can draw anything else from her before the end.

“You aren’t as much fun as I’d hoped,” I tell her.

I place one claw around her neck and hold her down. She cries out a moment as shifting puts new strain on her wounds, but then goes back to her weeping.

The other claw I run along her side, pondering where to begin on her. I start watching her face, seeing how she reacts, and then when I hit the point she seems to cringe the most at, just above her hind leg, I pause. I give it just long enough for her to wonder what I’m planning, then shove my talon into her.

Blood gushes out as she shuts her eyes, clenches her teeth, and writhes on the ground under me. When I start pulling my talon upward, carving her open, she managed to hold back for just a few seconds, her mouth hanging open as she lay there gasping. But after just a few more inches, she gives in, and is screaming once more.

I wonder how long she can scream before that gives out, too?

Well, I’m not that hungry. I suppose I can take my time and find out.

I always appreciate some entertainment before a meal.

Author's Note

So, this might be the darkest thing I've written yet. I was going for a sort of rapist vibe with Gaspard's casual yet monstrous hatred, and I in fact briefly considered having him rape her in the process. But then I decided that his absolute hatred of ponies and his belief they should be nothing but food meant that wouldn't fit the character.

And no, this isn't something I relate to in any way. But I like my villains to be complete monsters, and I don't hold back when I go for that.