Irvine

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He must have been walking for miles, but it felt like it had been years.

Light, expensive loafers that had been tracked through mud too many times dragged along the ground wearily. He had already gone too many days without eating, and the blazing sun overhead felt as if it were slowly boiling him alive in his throwaway striped polo and torn tan slacks with one leg torn off and tied around his thigh, ragged white coat, smirched and stained with dirt and tears. The cracked glasses dangling loosely at his fingertips were almost cast aside out of sheer frustration and despair, but every time the weary man tried to throw them away he only wound up sighing a few times before placing them haphazardly back onto his nose. The pounding of his headache was easy to blame for the glasses constantly slipping back off, though it was clearly because of the sweat. It would be easier if the constant pain in his chest would just go away.

His pacing was even, his strides were long, if slower than he'd have liked, but his breathing was still heavy and labored. Perhaps if this kept up he'd be rid of all of his baby fat that he'd kept since childhood. The thought of dying while looking slightly healthier didn't really comfort him, though.

Absentmindedly fingering the plastic card in his pocket, he wiped the sweat from his brow with one elbow and forced himself to forge onward, out of the heat of the sun toward the slim line of tall pines in the distance. It felt as if he'd been traveling across the plains for so long that cover was just a pipe dream. It was probably safer than crawling back underneath the smoking debris and red hot scraps of metal.

A single shadow flickered overhead.

Without pausing a moment, he dropped hard into the knee high grass and froze in a tight little ball. Not daring to even breathe, he tried to use the slim stalks as camouflage, desperately wishing the foliage were a little thicker. He didn't budge, he didn't breathe, he didn't so much as blink for what felt like hours and hours. Even though his lungs were burning and his nose itched terribly, he didn't move a single cramped muscle.

When nothing happened, he finally allowed himself the opportunity to assuage his burning lungs, peeking up from the sea of mottled green and cursing himself for being startled by a bird's shadow.

Still, better than the griffons.

Ever since setting foot in this accursed place, Irvine had been fighting to survive. The intense heat of the plains had been bad enough when he finally awoke, the concussion only worsening matters. But that had been easy enough to ignore, oddly enough, once the gargantuan winged beasts had started swooping down on him.

The first time had been bad enough. Not even a mere hour after he'd awoken amdist the debris had the creatures descended on him, screeching and cawing almost like some kind of mocking laughter. Humongous wingspans, easily seven or eight feet and long, raptor like claws made the things formidable on their own, but the addition of their piercing beaks and excellent vision made them even more dangerous. And, of course, this was accentuated by their fondness of hunting in packs. They were fast, intelligent, and deadly.

Sanchez would have adored them.

The fact alone that mythological creatures roamed the skies at day made Irvine a little more prone to travel at night, but the growing hunger pushed that thought away before long. In the southern forest, there might have actually been something aside from grass; berries, mushrooms, vegetables, and if he was fast and lucky enough, wild game.

Irvine was not a hunter by trade, but hunger and instinct could change that quickly.

The most important thing, he reinforced the thought, was to find nourishment before he collapsed again. The meager stream he had come across had been enough to quench his thirst, and the water was cool and clean, but that had been nearly a day ago, and he had no method of carrying any with him. If the nightmare birds didn't peck him to death, the hunger would get to him, and if it wasn't the heat it would be thirst.

Irvine was a bit too worn out to be an optimist.

The treeline, after such a long time of walking, finally seemed within grasp. His muscled burned and his back was hunched, but Irvine forced himself on steadily anyway. Step one, evade death. Step two, figure out steps three through ten. He'd already ruled out the possibility of ever getting home again, but he'd be damned if he wasn't going down fighting. It was human instinct.

Irvine's 'human instinct' didn't register the passing shadow overhead, so focused as he was on the growing treeline. He did, however, notice when it was joined by a second, and a third, and a fifth...

A string of foul curses sprang from his lips, and the panic was furious when it set in. He bounded ahead in a full sprint, throwing aside any hopes of stealth that he might hide in the treeline.

The forest, however, was nearly a quarter of a mile away, and Irvine had not eaten or slept in several days. Needless to say, he didn't make it very far at a full sprint before his aching, burning limbs took on the qualities of gelatin, the grassy plains mysteriously rising up to meet him as he collapsed from exhaustion.

“-m said the first time. Isn't natural.”

For a brief moment, Irvine hoped that it had all been a fever dream. This had been something he'd been secretly hoping since 'the incident', but it didn't seem to be the case. Maybe there was still a slim chance that he could blame it all on the concussion. The pain in his ribs wouldn't seem to quit, though, and for a brief second the fear that he was being eaten alive forced his eyes open, the sun overhead almost blinding him.

“Nah, pretty sure there's a heartbeat,” one of the griffons jabbing him in the ribs with a single talon commented with a clearly female voice. “I think it's just playin' dead, Cap-”

The pale grey griffon was quick to jerk back when Irvine's eyes shot open, and Irvine desperately struggled to kick himself along on his back a few measly inches, only to wind up smack dab in the presence of another griffon, this one larger and with luxuriously puffed orange plumage.

“I'm not dead,” Irvine croaked, the trio of griffon's eyes widening. “Please don't eat me until I am.”

“It talks?” the stunned orange plumed griffon blinked, backing away a step.

“It's alive?” the third, a black and white speckled one with a cracking tone said.

“Eat you?” the pale grey one balked.

“I'm terribly scrawny,” Irvine lied in a dry, loud whisper, and attempted to roll up one of the sleeves on his lab coat, but couldn't get his fumbling fingers to work properly. His fevered mind worked furiously. “I'm practically all bone underneath, not even worth the hassle.”

The pack (flock?) of griffons looked at each other for a moment before glancing back at him. And, much to Irvine's surprise, they actually managed a couple of nervous chuckles.

“Uh... well, we weren't really planning on eating you,” the grey female grinned, which for some reason Irvine found even harder to believe. Not that her smile didn't seem natural, it was the fact that she was doing it with a beak. He got an intense urge to squeeze it to check its firmness for himself, but kicked the urge away for fear of being bitten.

“What do you want with me?” Irvine wheezed, getting right to the point while feeling absentmindedly for his broken glasses and cramming them onto his face, simultaneously shirking away from the orange plumed griffon and sitting up properly.

Talking mythological creatures. Talking mythological creatures. Talking mythological creatures. Adjust, Delane. Adjust. Adjust.

“We've been tracking you for a few days now,” the black and white speckled one that kept his distance coughed, sharp eyes never leaving.

“Why?” Irvine tentatively fingered the plastic card in his pocket. A small part of his mind mentally kicked himself for not thinking to grab a sharp bit of metal or some form of weapon when he could. That's what happened when you let panic take over, you don't think clearly and regret it later. Every time.

“Why do you think?” the leader frowned, again making him extremely uncomfortable (well, moreso) with her unnaturally twisting beak. It didn't seem to be a rhetorical question.

“I would assume,” Irvine drew his legs up to himself, after an extremely long pause. “That perhaps it would be because the activity in the area drew your attention.”

“Activity, he says,” snorted the orange plumed griffon. “Explosion, more like.”

“Was anyone harmed?” Irvine asked immediately. “I didn't recover any bodies from the site.”

“Fortunately, no,” the grey leader spoke again, lowering her head a little to look him in the eyes. Her beady green eyes met his narrowed, bright blue ones. “We hauled the other one off. When we came back to the... 'site', you were gone. It looks like you're the only one who got scraped up and lived.”

“I have a mild concussion,” Irvine nodded grimly. “I also seem to have at least one fractured rib, minor burns on my left limb which I treated to the best of my ability, and my shoulder was originally displaced by the crash but I managed to force it back into position on the first day.”

The griffons said nothing as he spoke, nor did they move.

“I'm also on the verge of passing out again,” he rambled. “The only wildlife I've seen has been a snake, but it didn't get through my shoe.”

“We'll make sure you're patched up,” the grey one informed him solemnly, nodding to the others. “Do you have any weapons on you?”

For an instant, Irvine fantasized about bluffing, but gave it up almost instantaneously.

“No,” he answered wearily, another bout of dizziness hitting him hard. “I come in peace.”

One of the griffons snorted again, but he couldn't tell which.

“I'll explain what I can,” Irvine resisted the urge to cough again, his throat burning. “But I need water. Food, and water. I also need information in return,” he demanded.

“Fair enough,” the leader shrugged. “Information for information. When we get back.”

“I need to know something first,” he struggled to stand, the orange plumed one kindly helping him, which surprised him. “You said you recovered bodies, am I correct?”

“Well,” the grey one shifted uncomfortably. “Just the one. We brought... it back already, but there was... it was already too late.”

“I suspected as much.” Irvine crossed his arms, thinking quickly. “What did he look like? One of my associates? Dressed in a white coat, like mine?” he lifted up a corner of his sleeve for demonstration.

“Right,” the black and white one nodded, voice still cracking. “He had hair kinda like you, but longer and black instead of brown. Meatier, too.”

“... Meatier?”

“Y'know,” the griffon motioned in a circle to his chest. “We just called him Lumpy.”

Irvine froze.

After a long moment, he breathed a quiet sigh, closing his eyes.

“Her name... was Rachel Sanchez,” he said after a moment, very softly. “She was recently remarried. She loved birds, and she never missed an opportunity to help someone. She was thirty-four years old, she had two children in high school, and she was an engineer. Her name was Sanchez. Rachel. Rachel Sanchez. Not Lumpy,” Irvine's voice rose tremulously, “And she was brilliant.”

“... I'm sorry for your loss.” the grey griffon bowed her head respectfully. “We can take you to i- uh, her. If you'd like.”

“Wouldn't recommend it, though,” the orange plumed one coughed conspicuously. “We had to make two trips.”

If there had been anything on Irvine's stomach, he would have been ill.

“Anyone else?” he rubbed his eyes wearily, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. “Was anyone else recovered from the wreckage?”

“I'm sorry, no,” the leader shook her head, looking back to the speckled griffon awkwardly.

“Don't be,” Irvine clenched his fist tightly, thinking. “Sanchez might not have made it, but some of my other associates might have.”

“So there are more of you...” she frowned again, watching his every move.

“Possibly,” he nodded, holding up his fingers tiredly. “Two more were in the vicinity of the device, they might be in similar predicaments. Vincent Geoffrey, and doctor Hugh Hadrian Vicenzo.”

“Can you explain when we get back?” the leader nodded in the direction away from the treeline. “Or on the way, at least? This isn't exactly friendly territory.”

A weak nod was all the agreement he could manage.

I don't care if it's stupid. I don't care if it's dangerous. I swear to god, I'll find you.

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Irvine was not fond of flying.

Irvine was significantly less fond of being carried by flying griffons.

The forest behind shrank in the distance before long, and Irvine could clearly see the huge expanse of the plains, and a rising shadow on the horizon. They even flew directly over the 'site', and he almost gasped aloud at just how impossible it seemed that he'd survived at all. In the center was an enormous, amazingly enough still smoking crater, bits of metal shining in the setting sun. The scorched earth all around the area spread out in a circular fashion, more intently at the center than anywhere else. All of the plain's grass in the area had been simply burned away, the glow of a few cinders here and there still smoked. Although he stilll felt as if Keet, the leader, were going to drop him, she held a firm grasp around his armpits the entire flight, which only took about ten minutes thanks to their speed. Grouse, the black and white speckled griffon, was the first to land, shortly followed by the final griffon, named Alta. However, Irvine's attention lay not on the griffons themselves, but rather on their destination.

Keet's huge flapping wings whirled up little eddies of dust as they descended, dropping Irvine roughly a foot from the ground beside the high wooden barricade. He fell to his knees, but was quick to draw himself upward to get a better look at the encampment.

“Welcome,” Keet pointed with one wingtip to emphasize. “To Windshard Villa.”

“It's more impressive on the inside,” Alta assured him, whistling (somehow, without lips, which he'd have to study later) a loud but short tune. After a few moments, a large break appeared in the gate, gradually winding inward and revealing what Irvine had only managed to catch a few glimpses of previously.

Although fortified by spiked wooden poles all around, Windshard Villa wasn't the roost-laden place that he had expected. Many log bunkhouses lined the even dirt road, a few trails of smoke wafting across the place. A single large wooden cabin stood directly in the center, its three story roof positively towering over all the others. It appeared to be the only building with windows as well, and only on the third floor – the others had apparently been boarded up. The streets, while not full of other griffons, still had a large number of them milling about, all of whom were busied with hauling lumber with hunched backs or pulling equipment with low heads. He noted that there was not a single sign or scrap of food anywhere to be seen, despite the size of the place.

Every single one of them halted in their tracks the moment Keet crossed the border.

For a place so large to instantly become so still and quiet, it sent a small shiver up Irvine's spine. It was clear that the griffons that had brought him here weren't quite so uncomfortable, but they weren't relaxed, either. The griffons of Windshard Villa had hard eyes, suspiciously keeping their distance from the newcomer. Irvine took in this detail quickly, pondering.

These creatures were clearly predatory, by design. Something had them scared, and badly. It was doubtful that it had been caused by their (his?) arrival; whatever was causing this many of them to shield themselves with a barricade like that one must have been either extremely ferocious or utterly unrelenting.

Or both.

“Keet,” Irvine asked quietly from the side of his mouth as the gate slammed shut behind them, closed by an invisible workforce. “Is everyone always this tense, or is it just me?”

“I'll let the Baron explain,” Keet murmured back. “He's already seen to your... other, er, friend. Just keep your head down and stick close to us, and don't say anything to anyone.”

They marched in a swift, even pace, two griffons behind and Keet leading directly toward the large cabin. Irvine took in as much as he could with the time provided, forcibly turning his mind away from thoughts of Sanchez and what he might find when he inevitably saw her. Several more of the buildings seemed to have been hastily constructed, especially those on the outer perimeter compared to those closer to the cabin. Some of the closer ones had boarded up windows as well as opposed to those further away, which had none at all. A couple griffon's heads poked out, a few with bright flashes of red or blue but most were either brown or black, or some combination of the two. Nobody spoke to them as they passed, and the working griffons were evident in their attempt to avoid them. A single brightly colored horse, roughly the size of a large pony, was having difficulty dragging a wagon that was far too large for him to handle, its heavy contents covered by a single worn tarp.

Irvine was rather surprised to hear the pony cursing nervously to himself, growing more anxious as they passed.

Then again, there were talking griffons escorting him to their leader in a town full of terrified beasts. Was it really that surprising that they had talking horses as well?

Irvine thought about it for a moment longer, and decided that, yes, it was still unsettling.

“I got it,” Alta nodded, rolling his shoulders and banging twice on the double doors to the cabin.

“Who, exactly, is the baron of this place?” Irvine asked quietly, but Keet only shook her head.

“Just consider yourself extremely fortunate and pray to whatever gods you believe in that he's in a good mood.”

“The gods, or the barons?” Irvine quipped, but was ignored.

The door was drawn slowly open with a loud creak, the cool darkness seeping out.

“You are expected,” a small black pony with a white head eyed them curiously, watching Irvine rather intently. The mare shrank away from the griffons instantly, pressing herself tightly against the wall to stay out of their way. “Best not to keep him waiting.”

“I'll catch up later, Captain,” Grouse saluted uneasily to Keet, apparently utterly unaffected by the pony's strange (to Irvine) behaviour. “You know where to find me.”

“Understood,” Keet answered without looking back, though Alta was clearly worried as the doors shut raptly behind them. A sparse few candles were littered along the walls in protective glass, but it wasn't enough to light the whole cabin.

“Captain?” Irvine asked as he was led down a long hall and to a flight of wooden stairs.

“She used to be a ship's captain,” Alta explained quietly as they ascended, the only human with some difficulty due to his leg.

“Yes, thank you, Alta,” she seethed through clenched beak, and Irvine wondered again if they had hidden teeth.

“Really?” he inquired, feigning interest. “Of where, and what?”

“Captain of the Starlet Cloud,” Keet said brusquely without stopping or looking back.

“But not any longer?”

“Bottom of the ocean,” Keet's green eyes remained dead ahead as they reached the third floor.

“What of your crew?”

“Bottom of the ocean.”

“Always said griffons weren't meant to swim,” Alta muttered under his breath so that only Irvine could hear. “We belong to the skies, not the dirt, and 'specially not the water. What do we look like, mermares?”

Mermares?

Keet wasted no time in knocking twice on the carved door at the end of the hall. She motioned for the other two to follow, and led them into the Baron's den.

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