Griffon Destiny the Slip

Griffon Destiny the Slip

Chapter I

One Hundred Years Later

Gilda the griffon really needed the afternoon to go well; for no other reason had she decided to brave the fierce winds and driving rain that morning.  Predictably enough, her Yauw’yk had ended the way she least wanted it to: abruptly, and among the sprawling agaves lining Boreas Straza.  As she pulled herself free from the tight knots of branches, her ragged curses tasting of bitter leaves, she could hear old Grampa Gruff’s raspy laugh drifting up from the ground below.  It was just her imagination, of course; Grampa Gruff hadn’t laughed—or done anything—for years now, but the echo was enough to tease out an old saying of his from the depths of her head.

If the weather ain’t being kind, kid, then don’t go teasing fate with your *Yauw’yk.  You can chase the stars away another morning.*

Hmph, what had the old turkey known, anyway? Quicker at grabbing excuses than fish, old Gruff had always managed to find some way of getting out of flexing his talons with the other griffons every morning.  Besides, didn’t Gilda do enough for fate to warrant a free pass, even from the dark, snarling clouds and gale force winds that had occupied Griffonstone of late?

Apparently not, was the answer, and it made Gilda want to take a claw to fate’s face.  Sure, it might not have changed the fact that she had to imagine the stars losing their battle with the weak sunlight, rather than being in a position to chase them off herself, but it would have made the rest of the day that little more bearable.

An hour later, and Gilda had decided she was wrong—not even a boatload of mead was going to make this day bearable.

At least the party was in full swing now.  Between the two-tiered buffet table occupying the other adults, and the band performing on a makeshift stage at the other end of the hall—chicks and fledglings chirping and bouncing in time to the music—she was finally, blissfully, being left alone.  Gilda shifted uncomfortably in her seat, listening to the merry ditty being plucked and blown from the wooden instruments.  After a moment she returned to picking at the large slice of cake held in her claw.  Her wings still felt stiff and sore, and as she flexed them they knocked against the balloons hanging above.  Gilda glared at them.  There were always too many balloons—and bunting and confetti—at parties like this, but the Goldfeathers had taken the fish and flown with it.  Griffons with neatly plucked and pressed feathers bobbed between the gathered adults, serving champagne and punch in delicate, narrow flutes.  The guests accepted them without even so much of a nod of thanks, instead continuing to chirp about the academic achievements of their brood, or whether the war with the ibex was going to negatively affect their investments.

Gilda scowled and popped a balloon.  Coming to the high quarter was the absolute worst.

A sharp pain suddenly flared up her hind leg, and she looked down to see a fledgling bracing her body for a second kick.  Gilda narrowed her eyes.

“What?”

The fledgling scowled back.  “I want my answer too!” she commanded primly.

Gilda rolled her eyes at the bratty bundle of trimmed fur and feathers.  At what point had the Griffon Empire started to produce these? She pulled her gaze back to the cake and nibbled on it.  Too sweet.  It was way too sweet.

The fledgling pulled a face and kicked out again.  Gilda felt warmth spread beneath the calami of her feathers as the paw connected with her hind leg.  She pointed a claw towards one of the windows.

“Do that again, kid,” she snapped.  “And you’ll be looking for your paw on the other side of Griffonstone.”

The fledgling sat back on her haunches and folded her forelegs, an expectant expression creasing her face.  “I want my answer,” she repeated.  “Ginseng’s got her feathersong, and I’m a year older than her.”

“Could have fooled me, kid.”  Gilda clacked her beak in annoyance and looked across at the other adults, hoping that one of them might notice what a royal pain in the tail-feather their sprog was being, but they were all lost in their discussions about, well whatever it was wealthy griffons spoke about.  Just typical; clearly, the respect everyday griffons needed to give the Kar’acha was selective.

She turned her attention back to the fledgling.  “Look, you know how it works.  You felt anything tugging at your feathers yet?  Had a sense that you should be going somewhere, doing something?”

Her beak twitched.  “Yeah...”

Gilda dropped the disgusting cake back on her plate and narrowed her eyes.  “Word of warning, kid: I get pretty pissed when griffons waste my time.”

The fledgling's throat bobbled once.  “Uh... no.”

“Yeah, thought as much.”  Gilda cast a quick glance at the crowd before leaning in close, her voice a whisper.  “Just be patient.  It’ll be your turn to have your life ruined soon enough.”  She jerked her head in the direction of the other chicks still dancing in front of the band.  “Now scram! Go commiserate Ginseng, or something.”

The young griffon's beak trembled for a moment, before she narrowed her eyes and blew a raspberry.  Gilda watched her bound away before standing and approaching the buffet table.  She had barely took a few steps, however, when a griffon with elegantly curved feathers the colour of ash on snow appeared at her side.  The smile on her narrow, angular face was wide, but forced.

“Vane-Scribe! Is everything okay?  Is the music to your satisfaction?  The food?”

Gilda ran a claw through her white mane-feathers, fighting to keep her face straight.  No doubt the only reason she was worried about what Gilda thought was because she wanted to brag to her friends afterwards.  “It’s not my party, Mrs Goldfeather.  I'm fine,” she added, seeing the griffon's face fall theatrically.  What a pain.

“Very good, very good.”  Mrs Goldfeather clucked in disapproval as one of the excitable chicks scuttled over the trailing base of her black dress.  “I had heard on the fishing line,” she began conspiratorially, passing Gilda a glass of champagne.  “That the Royal-Bluecrests didn’t even invite you to their son’s celebration.  Terribly uncultured, not that I would expect much else.  I swear, I don’t know how they managed to afford an eyrie around here.”

Gilda downed the fizzy drink in one and tried on a polite smile.  It failed.  “Yeah... Well, I should get going.”

Mrs Goldfeather’s eyes widened, making her face look imbalanced.  “Oh heavens, you’re not serious, are you?” She looked quickly over her shoulder at the other griffons and lowered her voice to a hiss.  “It’s the music, right? Or the cake?  It’s too sweet isn't it?  I’ve already put Chef on a final warning about that.  I can rely on your discretion, I trust?”

Gilda watched the griffon’s haughty demeanour gradually be replaced by rising panic and sighed.  She was so pathetically tragic, but it just wasn’t worth upsetting the apple cart.  “Yeah,” she replied, before raising her voice.  “This is a... neat party and all, but I’ve got a really busy day ahead of me.  Say, can I take some of that delicious and definitely not-too-sweet cake for the road?”

Mrs Goldfeather flashed the assembled griffons a self-satisfied smile that automatically made Gilda regret her charity.  “Why certainly, Vane-Scribe,” she replied, equally loudly, passing several slices to Gilda.  She snapped her head in the direction of the dancing griffons.  “Ginseng!  Come over here now, dear.”

Gilda watched the young fledgling pull herself away from her friends with a pained look on her face.  As a general rule, fledglings were noisy, messy and totally lame, but Gilda always felt a twinge of discomfort—more so than usual—when she delivered a feathersong to one.  Ginseng’s was suckier than most, and her parents were making the whole thing even more unbearable than it otherwise should have been.

Ginseng waddled over in an expensive-looking dress that didn't quite fit over her broad frame and short, stubby feathers.  The vivid red parchment was held tightly in her claws, as though she was scared someone was going to steal her destiny away from her.  She looked up at Gilda, not with reverence but gratefulness in her eyes, and beamed.

“Yeah?”

“Ginseng!”  Her mother’s voice trembled as she looked over her shoulder.  The fledgling winced.

“Sorry... I mean, yes, mother?”

Mrs Goldfeather folded her forelegs.  “Much better.  Now then, the Vane-Scribe has to leave shortly.  What do you say to her?”

Ginseng’s squat face contorted in thought.  “Uh...”

“For goodness sake,” her mother whispered fiercely.  “Like we practiced!”

“Oh, right!”  Ginseng pulled her heavy frame into an awkward curtsy, holding a large claw up to keep the silver party hat on top of her head.  “Thank you, Vane-Scribe,” she began in a trembling voice,  “for delivering to me the song of my feathers.”

As it always did, Gilda’s stomach contorted at the words.  She shrugged, tapping the parchment with a claw.  “Don’t mention it, kid.  I... hope your feathers carry you true.”  It was a lie, though—it nearly always was.

Ginseng beamed again before darting off to rejoin her friends.  Mrs Goldfeather watched her daughter go with an ugly frown on her face.  “I’m going to have to speak most severely to Feathernurse Gentleclaw.  A chick of her calibre should be behaving more acceptably than that.”  She glanced across at Gilda and a smile twisted her beak—a smile that made Gilda want to remove the whole damn thing and shove it up her tail-feathers.  “Especially now she’ll be marrying royalty.”

“Yeah... Sure.”  Gilda shrugged as she noticed Mr Goldfeather split from the other griffons to join them.  She had no idea where Ginseng had inherited her frame from, but her stubby, wild feathers were less of a mystery, despite Mr Goldfeather’s attempts to smooth his down with wax.

“Ah-ha, here she is—the herald of all of our future good fortunes.”  His eyes, buried deep within circles of burnished gold, looked pleased.  “Before you go, though, I was wondering—is there something we should be doing now? You know, just to speed things along somewhat?”

Gilda scratched her beak with a talon, feeling the skin beneath her feathers grow warm.  “Don’t ask me,” she replied.  “I’m just the messenger: I don’t get praised, I don’t get shot and I definitely don’t give advice.”

She could tell from the shadow that briefly crossed his cultured face that her answer hadn’t satisfied him.  Oh well, too bad, stubs.

“Of course, of course.”  He ran a claw down his tan mane, finding an unruly feather and plucking it loose.  “But please, if you could indulge us but for a moment.  We were simply wondering whether she should be enrolled in classes.”

Gilda felt the heat in her body rise.  “I didn’t realise there were princess classes.”

Mr Goldfeather laughed, a rich sound that suggested he was humouring Gilda.  “Quite.  Well, I don’t know if you happened to notice, Vane-Scribe, but our little princess—heh, oh how fitting that pet name turned out to be—well, she’s still something of a... rough speaker.”

“Boisterous, too,” Mrs Goldfeather added, her sharp face looking across at her daughter as though judging a pound of fish.

“She’s six,” Gilda snapped.  “They tend to be.”

“Yes... Well, now that the song of her feathers is known, we can’t very well ignore it.”  Mr Goldfeather’s voice dropped a level.  “I was starting to fear that Ginseng was going to go the same way as Gurthwan—you know, being told he was going to become a blacksmith of all things.  So funny, that.”

Gilda hissed.  It suddenly felt as though all of the air inside the hall was being drained.  Her feathers bristled and pricked her skin, as if urging her to move—to do anything, so that they could breathe again.  “So what’s wrong with being a blacksmith?” she snapped, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice.  They were idiots, every last one of them.  “My great-uncle Gupka was a blacksmith, and he was awesome!”

The Goldfeathers cast nervous glances around the room.  Gilda shook her head.  They were idiots, absolute idiots.

But then what did that make her?

Tired, she decided, after giving it a moment’s thought.  It made her tired.  Tired of the feathersong, tired of the parties, and tired of jerks like these ruining the lives of their children.

“Please, Vane-Scribe, some of our elderly guests have sensitive ears,” Mr Goldfeather was urging softly.  “We certainly meant no offence.”

“Yeah? Well guess what?  I’m offended!” Gilda shook her head.  As was often the case, the anger was quickly accompanied by the grim realisation of her role in this.

“We’re sorry!” Mrs Goldfeather clucked, bobbing her head forward.  “It’s just...  We’re simply relieved that she’s going to be something, rather than...”  She let the implication die on her tongue.

“Oh sure, she’s gonna make someone a great trophy wife; you both must be so proud!” Gilda pushed past them, unable to stomach the sight of the couple anymore.  She paused in the middle of the griffons at the buffet table.  “You know what, though?” she said loudly, looking over her shoulder.  “I think you read the feathersong wrong.  Ginseng would make an awesome blacksmith.  You looked at her lately? I don't see a princess in there at all!”

As she slammed the door behind her, Gilda frowned.  And whose fault was that?

The flight to The Plucked Feather tavern was slow and dull, and did little to cool Gilda’s anger.  It certainly didn’t help that the strong winds that had accompanied the storm clouds to Griffonstone forced her to stay at a low altitude.  For a moment, she entertained the idea of giving in to her desires and riding one of the thermal streams forming in the humid air, but the dull ache in her wings was a reminder of how that had ended up last time.  It was so frustrating; there were many awesome things about soaring through the sky, but seeing Griffonstone shift and change beneath her had always been Gilda’s favourite.

Instead, she was forced to hug the air above the eyries and buildings as she followed the natural curve of the great basin towards its centre.  The reappearance of the feathersong seven years ago had been simultaneous with the resurgent growth of the empire, and both had fostered a belief in griffons that the altitude of one’s feathers was proportionate to prestige.  As such, well-kept neighbourhoods of villas and eyrie estates were now coiling tightly around the higher elevations of the basin, as the wealthy and the powerful flocked away from the centre of Griffonstone.

Gilda adjusted her angles as she circled above what had since become known as the old quarter, absorbing with every available sense the vibrancy of the mazy streets below.  Ramshackle eyries and structures, towering three or four stories high, reached precariously towards her like colourful claws.  After a few moments circling, the wonderful aroma of roasted fish and fennel started to dance upon her tongue.  A joyful trill had built in her throat, despite her bad mood, and Gilda willingly released it.  The sound echoed across the tall, narrow streets until reaching the farmland sloping away from the south quarter.

Tilting her wings to increase drag, Gilda slowed to a skipping halt on the main straza running from the High Palace of Griffonstone to the new train station, and walked the short remaining distance on foot.  The clouds rumbled their discontent above but, despite snapping and snarling, refused to open.  Gilda was beginning to wonder if they ever would.

The Plucked Feather was nestled at the end of the straza between two shacks used for storing grain.  A  squat building of wattle and daub, whitewashed and held upright by cracked oak timbers, the sight of it warmed Gilda like the embrace of an old friend.  By the time she approached the open doorway, thick aromas of fresh straw and sweet mead spilling out, the beginnings of a smile had creased her face.  It was a good place to waste time, and she still had an hour or so before they were due to arrive.  Stepping inside, her eyes acclimatised quickly in the dim, candle-lit interior as she took one of the seats lining the business-end of the bar.  Despite being the only other griffon in there, the grey-feathered barkeeper ignored her, keeping his attention fixed on the thick beams above.

Gilda watched him for a moment before pounding a closed claw on the bar.  “Hey! Ever think you might be in the wrong trade, Gregor?”

The griffon scratched his chipped beak, his pale eyes remaining on the ceiling.  “’Course I am,” he replied, a smile softening his voice.  “Who would want this as their destiny? Look, the woodworm are back.”

Gilda craned her head and looked up into the darkness of the roof space for a few moments, before her frustrations reasserted themselves.  “Well, woodworm can’t do anything other than eat wood.  Same as you can’t do anything but serve me mead.”

Gregor shuffled on scarred legs to the stack of barrels behind the bar.  “Well, I guess I’ll never find out until you come here for a reason other than the drink,” he replied, raising a tankard to a barrel.

A smile twisted Gilda’s beak.  “I do, birdbrain.  I come for your awesome company.”

He placed the tankard down with a cackle and took the proffered bits.  Gilda peered down at her reflection in the shimmering liquid: her eyes, usually bright and fierce within the lilac circles of eye-plumage, were made dull by the amber hue of the mead.  Then she noticed her half-smile.  Fall of Boreas, was that what it looked like?  It was creepy.  Greta had always told her she had an awesome smile.

Greta.

Gilda swallowed, pushing the thought of her friend aside and focusing instead on the way the tavern suddenly seemed so much quieter to her ears.  The smothering presence was punctuated suddenly by a jostling group of griffons pushing each other through the doorway.  As they approached the bar they laughed and traded insults, oblivious to her presence.  Nevertheless, Gilda watched them from the corner of her eye, keeping her head angled away after she noted the cerulean and garnet tunics each griffon wore.

Gregor walked back over after he had finished serving them.  “More fodder for the front line, then.”

“Yeah.”  She glanced briefly over as the soldiers took a table in the opposite corner.  Gilda couldn't remember all crests and uniforms that had recently come back into use, but she definitely knew the royal army when she saw it.  The group chattered among themselves, a nervous energy beneath the joviality, and Gilda pulled her gaze away upon recognising two of them.  “Lucky sacks of feathers,” she muttered, feeling the guilt sitting heavy on her chest.

She was suddenly aware that Gregor was watching her quietly, a frown darkening his brow.  After a minute the scrutiny became too much and she slapped a few more bits onto the counter.  “Have a drink, will ya? You think it’s fun beak-bucking by myself?”

He pushed the bits back towards her, but poured himself a tankard anyway.  “Huh, your monthly royal stipend might be more than this place earns in half a year, but I’ll pay my own way, thanks.  Dunno what you’re griping for, anyway.  They all seem happy enough.”

Gilda twitched in her seat.  “Of course they are,” she spat, taking a large gulp of mead.  “They’re answering the song of their feathers—why shouldn’t they be happy? Maybe they’ll even end up fighting for something worthwhile, rather than for Gullwing’s own personal gain.  Doubt it, though.”  She sighed.  The mead warmed her chest, but did little to sooth the hot pricking of her feathers against her skin.  It seemed like she’d have another one by the end of the day.  Just great.

Gregor clacked his beak, casting a wary eye over at the soldiers.  “You’re lucky you can speak so freely; heard tales of the General clipping wings for less.”

Gilda grinned, though it felt heavy.  Remembering that Gullwing was miles away on the frontline, and out of her feathers for a spell, made her feel somewhat better about her situation.  “He clips wings for fun, Gregor.  Anyway, there’s gotta be at least one perk to this, right?  Long as he keeps the glory of the Griffonstone Empire going, no one else'll say a thing about him.”

Gregor shrugged.  “You do your bit for Griffonstone too,” he replied quietly.  “Perhaps more than you think.”

Gilda gazed back up at the woodworm-infested rafters, her feathers quivering.  “Yeah.  Thanks for reminding me.”

To Gilda, the new train station was an awesome symbol of how welcoming and accessible the Griffonstone Empire was making itself to the rest of Equestria.  It was just too bad that the other nations had so far failed to notice the gesture.  It was a long open building, with a vaulted roof of curved glass panels and timber, although only one of the four platforms was used with any great frequency.  Nevertheless, the stalls and shops always made the place busy, and Gilda had to force her way through a modest crowd as the train from Canterlot puffed slowly into the station.  Once or twice she paused, looking left and right as her feathers prickled uncomfortably.  Hadn't that griffon with the white tunic been in the tavern? She quickly dismissed the concern as just nervous anticipation.  Her heart had been growing wings of its own since she had left Gregor's company; it was ridiculous how excited she was getting over this—for a start, there was no guarantee that the ponies were even going to be able to help her—but now that she was here she just couldn’t stop herself.  Soon, she might finally be—

“Excuse me? Hello?”

Gilda winced at the high pitched voice, and turned to see a dumpy, middle-aged griffon with ludicrously curled fuscia head-feathers watching her.  The strange but familiar look in her eyes—half reverential, half aloof—made Gilda’s stomach tighten.  She cleared her throat.

“Yeah?”

“Are you the Kar’acha?” the griffon asked eagerly.  The white ring of feathers around her eyes gave her the expression of being in a permanent state of surprise.

Gilda bit back a groan and nodded.  “Yeah.”  It was getting harder these days to hide, what with her face appearing on all manner of royal court sponsored posters and publications.  She needed to have a word with the King’s Office about that.  Again.

“I knew it,” the griffon squawked, elbowing the equally dumpy male standing beside her, who Gilda hadn’t noticed until that moment.  “I told you, didn’t I, Colbeak?” she continued loudly.  “Didn’t I say it was her?”

Colbeak sighed and bobbed his head in what was obviously a practiced movement.  “Yes, Gwynvale, you sure did.”

Gilda frowned as she reflected on the strange name.  “You from out of town?”

“Oh, yes—Well, Colbeak is, obviously,” Gwynvale nodded enthusiastically.  “You can tell from the name that he's from Drygulch, right? Ever heard of it? Lovely place up north, just a delight! After we married I moved there, but now we’re looking to come back to Griffonstone.  Safer, you know? What with the war going on and all that.”

Gilda nodded, trying to keep up with the griffon’s rapid patter.

“Anyway,” Gwynvale trilled. “We’re so lucky to have bumped into you.  I was saying just yesterday—wasn’t I, Colbeak? —that it would be just divine if we could scratch some advice out of you about our darling Gabool.”

Gilda lowered her eyes.  Between the couple stood a young chick who was in very real danger of losing all sense of shape entirely.  An untidy ball of white feathers and fur, his pudgy eyes stared unblinkingly at a lollipop stick he held in his claw.  Occasionally he would attack the wood with his beak, as if seeing some tiny fragment of confectionery still on there.  Gilda shook her head.  Give it up kid, it’s dead already.

“Look,” she said, turning back to Gwynvale.  “You know if he hasn’t had the yearning yet then I can’t help.  I only hear and deliver the feathersong.  I can’t make it sing before they’re ready.”

“Oh I know that, of course I do,” Gwynvale replied, waving a claw.  “I—We were wondering if you could just give us some advice, weren’t we, Colbeak?”

Despite the soothing effects of the mead, Gilda felt an ugly tremor pass through her body.  “To be honest...” She bit back the words and tried again.  “I don’t think I’m the best griffon—”

“Oh, listen to you, dear.  We don’t want any great life-changing advice, or anything.  Just a little something to help us help him on his way.  I mean, should we make sure he’s getting enough exercise?”  Gwynvale thrust her beak an inch away from Gilda’s.  “If our darling Gabool is going to be a future star of the racing circuits then we’ll need to enroll him in the Junior Speedster Camp or something, but if he’s going to be a scholar then we won’t worry about his adorable little sugar diet.”

Gilda’s beak fell open.  No way was the kid going to amount to anything in a sporting sense—well, unless the Drygulch boffyball team needed a spare ball—and the vacant look on his face suggested that a life in academia might be expecting a little too much of him.  She frowned in thought.  Or maybe that expression was just Gabool realising that the lollipop was, indeed, dead.

Gwynvale cleared her throat, her eyes expectant.  “So, can you help?  Give him anything at all?”

Gilda glanced back down at Gabool.  What was she honestly supposed to say? What could she do that would that neatly tell his parents that they were stupid idiots to ask for her help, without making the sad sack of feathers feel bad about his unfortunate situation?

With a shrug she reached into her satchel and tossed the chick the slice of wrapped cake.  Then she turned round and walked off.  The small three-carriage train from Canterlot was already now wreathed in a spiraling cloud of steam, the passengers beginning to disembark.

Gilda clacked her beak as she tried to locate them in the crowd.  What if they were delayed—or worse, not coming at all? The letter from Princess Twilight Sparkle had guaranteed assistance with her ‘friendship problem’, as she had weirdly decided to label it, but what if something else had come up since? What if Gullwing’s stupid war with the ibex had made the friendship-loving ponies think twice about helping a griffon?

Then two unicorns stepped through the misty coils, their luggage floating behind them in shimmering bubbles, and Gilda felt her concern fall from her shoulders.

Even for ponies, they made for an odd sight.  The cream-coloured one with a messy curl of red and purple mane was wearing an oversized tartan print poncho, and even without the thick framed glasses looked like a total egghead.  Her purple-pelted companion, strands of her darker toned mane escaping from under the thick woollen hat perched on top of her head, was chattering excitedly as she attempted to pull the creased travel guide away from her friend’s muzzle.  Gilda inhaled.  Well, here she was.  Time to see whether there was any truth to Grampa Gruff's words.

“Hey!” She lifted a claw.  “Over here!”

The ponies looked up, bright and cheerful smiles on their faces.  As they trotted across the platform towards her, Gilda tried to recall their names from the brief exchange of letters.  Nerd and slightly-lesser-nerd probably wasn’t going to cut it.  Thankfully, the unicorn with the hat spared her blushes.

“Hi! Gilda, right? It’s so nice to finally be able to meet you in... uh—”

“In the feather,” her companion prompted, her muzzle back inside the book.  Gilda frowned as she looked at its cover.  What was that supposed to be anyway? A griffon, or some kind of argument between an army of triangles and a wilted leek?

The purple unicorn winced.  “—Yeah... In the feather, right.  Anyway!  Awkward formalities dealt with, I’m Starlight Glimmer.”

Gilda bobbed her head.  “Princess Twilight’s student, right? Good to meet you!”

Starlight waved a hoof.  “Wellll, more of her understudy, now.  Fewer note-making duties, more opportunities to find and tackle problems.”

The other pony looked up.  “When have you ever made notes?”

“So anyway!” Starlight continued quickly.  “Gilda, huh!  You know, Pinkie Pie has told me so much about you.”

Despite how lame the day had been, Gilda found herself smiling.  It had been way too long since she had seen Pinkie Pie last.  “If it’s about that griffon scone eating contest then she’s lying.  She cheated.”  She looked across at the other unicorn, who was putting the guide book into her bulging saddlebag.  “So let me see if I remember right: Moon Dancer, yeah? The pony who’s wasting her time trying to become a griffon?”

Her bushy eyebrows knitted together into a frown.  “Not wasting exactly... I’ve actually made some real progress answering the...” She blinked.  “Wait! I don’t want to become a griffon! I’m just studying you.”

Gilda folded her forelegs.  “Huh.  You know, they’ve got a name for ponies who stare at griffons all day long.”

“They do?” Moon Dancer’s face twisted in thought for a moment, before a light flush dusted her cheeks.  “No!, I’m not studying you because I find you attractive—Oh! I didn’t mean that to sound... Ugh.”  She shook her head, the blush deepening.  “It’s for my thesis,” she finished, weakly.

Gilda laughed and slapped Moon Dancer on the back.  All things considered, it was a good start.  “Ah, I’m just yanking your wing... well, horn.  Come on,” she added, nodding her head at the clouds as a low rumble split the air.  “Let’s get out of here before this storm breaks.  Once you’re unpacked and settled back at my eyrie I can tell you about a really swell part of griffon culture.”

“I can’t wait!” Starlight said, her voice sounding a little too enthusiastic for Gilda’s tastes.  “We’re both really excited to help you with your friendship problem.”

“Yeah... Friendship problem.  Right.”  Gilda rolled her eyes as she turned to lead them from the station, then froze as she saw a flash of white tunic in the crowd beside them, followed by a second.

She hadn't been imagining things at all.  She was being followed!  And whoever they were, she had just lead them right to the only ones who were going to be able to help her.

Somewhere, Gilda just knew Grampa Gruff was laughing.