Clip. Clop. Clip. Clop.
The sound of shuffling echo down the tattered remnents of the third floor of the 'Fflo. Each step creaks badly battered floorboards, while ancient, faded carpet does little to muffle the sound of oncoming steps. Motes of dust dance upon the thin, grey light that shows through small bullet holes lining the ceiling and walls. Slow, light, the steps continue down the hall, and pause before a great sealed door, marked with iron rivets and held closed by a great, rusted wheel. Above the door, an amber light flickered, blinked, and gave off a soft buzz.
Clip. Clop. Clip. Clop.
Turning, the lone sentry paused to sniff at the air. His snout, crossed with scars and injuries that had healed quite ugly, pressed near a curdled section of wall paper, and sharpened teeth glinted in the dim light. Another sniff, he turned his head towards a side door - a storage closet. Something itched in his temple, and he snorted out dust and a hot, rancid breath. He approached closer, and drew a jagged horse-shoe clad hoof up to touch the door. It creaked, and then was shoved open. Buckets and old boxes, labeled with faded print, were all that greet the pink eyed equine. Grunting, he gave a solid kick to a crate labeled: "Stain-Buster!", the hoof denting the idiotic grinning mare holding up what would have once been a pure white sheet.
Clip. Clop. Clip. Click.
"Stupid feckin'..." The stallion paused. His left hoof felt odd. A metalic taste watered his mouth as he looked down, thand stared at the pistol that lay beneath the iron shod hoof. Shaking his head, he reached down and took a look at the dark, boxy thing. That hadn't been there five minutes ago. A look left, a look right, he took up the long object and slid the automatic pistol into an empty holster. Score one for him - maybe he'd give it to the minotaur down stairs for a feel of his striped pet down stairs. Yeah, she would feel nice wrapped around his long, fat-
There was no yelp. There was no hiss, scream, or dramatic cry out of anguish, to alert his fellows. There was only a sudden pressure against his throat, and a sickening feel of ice as it slid horizontally. Ice turned to flame, and flame danced as lungs burned, the burning spreading up and down, and then falling away into a stilted nothingness. The soul of the sentry went whimpering into tarturus, while the body crumpled and fell forward, spurting blood into the closet, and giving the sheets inside a new stain. The body twitched, its throat cut neatly, and quietly.
After a few short moments, only the buzzing of an amber light above an iron door sounded in the hall.
Click. Click. Click. Click.
Carefully wiping a smooth blade off on the pilfered neck tie of the rather poorly trained sentry, a figure clasped in dark blues and indigo black crept down the hall. A glance down the hall would have uttered sounds of surprise more than shock, at least for a few moments, but none were around to see the brightly coloured lemon-green gryphon creep down the walk. The third floor was clear of threats, at least for the moment. This was good. The blade was sheathed in a thigh harness, and he crept to the edge of the stairwell, and pressed back against it, to listen.
Conversation. It was low, but present - it suggested four, perhaps five figures who would prove to be an issue. Difficult, but not impossible to take on, if he was smart. He glanced out with a quick jerk of his head, and pulled back. Five. They had plenty of melee weapons - two great hammers, a pair of rusty shears that looked to have been left too long inside of a ponies guts, one unarmed, and one with a heavy, battered, and heavily battered rifle. Difficult. But not impossible. Crouching, the gryphon slid out of cover and darted into a large, make shift kitchen. The room was in dissaray, having been looted at least a dozen times, and nothing but centuries old boxes of Dried Apples remained in the tattered back pantry.
It would be another six centuries until they were more than just technicly ineddible.
The kitchen connected to a dining room, where a gathered trash pit burned merrily. Shadows danced and flickered from the slow burning pile of refuse and old, broken furniture that had once been exquisitely hand carved applewood seating. Now, they burned, as five ponies sat, muttering and talking amongst themselves. It was a small gang, as far as raiders went - but even two could be devestating if pushed hard enough or dosed on Buck. The green gryphon crouched, and reached into a strapped saddle bag with a claw. A plan began to form, as he watched, unseen, and unheard.
Clang!
Three heads jerked around, a fourth glancing up towards the kitchen. The sound clattered, like the fall of a dozen knives and forks from a broken drawer. Grunting, a pink unicorn rose up, levitating the grand hammer that was half her body length beside her. Her jaw worked in a slow hinge-unhinge motion, eliciting pops and cracks that sounded every bit as painful as they were. She didn't care. Her rump itched something fierce, and she idly pondered digging out the bullet still lodged in her flank before it began to smell. Her thoughts side-tracked on sight of a knife sticking into a table - with a Dash canister hanging from a small cloth lanyard. Her eyes fell on it, as she stepped in. A present? It was bloody hearts and hooves day. No, wait, wasn't it-
Distracted, she didn't notice the thin wire that jutted from a nail exposed on the battered flower papered wall, nor did she see the gernade resting beneath a table, underneath a small pile of forks, and scrap metal. She didn't smell the musk of the gryphon who ducked out of the room and into the hall. And three seconds later, as she reached for the canister, she didn't see anything ever again.
The explosion caused the four remaining equines to scramble up to their feet, two charging towards the noise with screams of rage, hunger, and violence frothing their lips. The large earthen pony, easily a quarter larger than the next largest, galloped down the main hall to circle around. Obviously, it was an ambush! He charged straight forward, and rounded the doorway into the sights of a boxy pistol. He let out a bellow of rage - before collapsing, three holes neatly blown through his skull. The Gryphon didn't have time to savor his victory, as he grabbed the shears held in the mouth of the stallion, and ducked into another side room. He panted.
Three down. Reaching into a side pocket, he sorted through his goods for a moment as they attempted to track him. He ducked behind the door and waited, counting. They ran for his door, and he brought his left leg down, bracing as he thrust up with a secondary knife. It was smaller, thinner than the blade he had stuck in the table - he made a note to recover that - and it struck into the torso of a blue unicorn, who shouted and frothed and raged. She swung her hammer for his head. He brought his left arm up, and twisted into the momentum of the blow. The blow struck hard, but not as bad as it could have been. The gryphon brought the knife in again, again, and a third time - before jerking to the side as a powerful buck scraped his cheek and sent him spiraling to the ground.
Wings flaring, he hopped backwards, and landed on a bone-strewn bed. Grabbing a thigh bone, he swung and intercepted the next hammer blow aimed for his groin. The bone caught and deflected the hammer, if barely, and a quick prayer went to the ancestors that he wasn't gelded on the spot. He brought the bone up again, and jammed it into the eye socket of the heavily bleeding raider, who coughed violently and fell back, grabbing at her eye. The unarmed mare lunged again and pounced, all four hooves landing with a painful pop on the feathery figure. The gryphon grunted, and slammed his thin blade upwards. A moment later, he was bathed in the steaming bowels of a mare who strangled out a painful, whimpering groan. The blade twisted and caught on a rib. He let it go.
Raising up slowly, stained in blood and guts and vicereal death, the gryphon rose, and dove for the unicorn who tried to stand. He grabbed her head, and wrenched. She screamed - and then fell quiet as the vertibrae in her neck popped. She died. He needed a bath.
Heaving a breath, he pushed the body aside, and turned in time to see the long barrel of a rifle aimed in his direction. His wings flared, before a roar sounded through the small, bloody room. The gryphon twisted - and that did save his life, though he would come to regret the results of instinct. The roar sounded, and a bone shattered in his wings - the hollow pinion shattering like a gernade going off, and tattering the wing in an instant. He screamed, in agony and rage, and fell to cover. Another discharge slid into the meat of his haunch - ripping flesh but the well worked leather had absorbed a majority of the impact. That didn't mean it felt like a lovers kiss, though.
"You bloody feathered freak!" The rifle discharged a third time - a fourth struck a pouch and spilled a pair of potions, though the magically hardened glass didn't shatter. They spun and bounced beneath the bed, leaving their owner crouched. THe rifle drew long bead upon the skull of the gryphon. The gryphon blinked, and lunged. THe gun discharged above a tufted ear, deafening it. The left arm swung up and wrapped the barrel, before his claws dug into the wood and he rolled backwards, breaking the grip and snapping a tooth of the muzzle-held firing grip. The gun was swung - cracking once, twice, three times into the face of the equine. The pony fell, clutching her face. The gun was leveled for her skull.
"Please, I'm pregnant..." Fear, and the smell of piss dribbled from her prone body. She gazed up with fear and terror and pain - her eyes yellowed stared up, pleading. The gryphon gazed down at her, his thoughts turning, inquisitively. He breathed deep, then lowered the gun a fraction of an inch. ANd then lower yet. He pressed the gun against her stomach, and discharged three shots into her belly. Blood splashed and she screamed.
"Tough." He muttered, the gun eventually locking into place on the last shell. The gun was poorly maintained, and finally gave up the ghost as the rust, built up over centuries, snapped the firing pin.
She died that way. He stepped past her, and into the hall, the empty gun tossed aside. He shook his head with a grimace as he tucked his battered wing down into his side. The pain dug into his scalp and spine, but he continued on. His beak ground together while he entered the dining room. He approached the three bound forms, and two foals and a striped mare with a bloody gag in her mouth. Yellow, gold, and red stained their bodies.
Gazing down with cool golden eyes, the gryphon reached into a pouch and pulled a pack of cigarettes free of a leather pouch, as well as a rune-marked lighter, which sparked neatly and created a cool azure flame. Eyes, the colour of the long missing sun, often called 'Solar Gold', stared down at the bound mare. He took a breath from the cigarette and blew a calming puff of smoke out - which did much for settling his nerves. The mild mood enhancers laced into the cigarettes always helped him feel good.
"Xhosa." The gryphon said, kneeling and drawing his retreived knife. He slid the blade through the ropes binding her, then up across the gag holding her snout shut. She whimpered, and scrambled back from him. He grabbed her, and stood - pulling her with him. She stood with a wince. "You are Xhosa?"
"Hear my cry, that is I." She said, in the rhythmic sing-song of her tribes folk. "Xhosa is my place and my name, you had part in this bloody game?"
He took another puff of smoke, and let it out through his nares.
"Put an end to it. I have a contract from your father. Can you walk?"
She gave him a nod. He grunted. That was one less issue to factor in on the next part of the mission. He paused on sight of the two foals, and felt another grimace cross his face. Looking at Xhosa, then the two foals, he supressed a groan and undid their bindings as well. They looked up at him in thanks, but dared not approach him. Being freed of one captor did not mean that they were safe by any means.
"Fall behind, get left behind." He muttered to the two, then stood. It was going to be a very long walk.
Despite what the neigh-sayers might have proclaimed, the world was not yet dead. While it would be easy to believe otherwise, and it took a lot of willpower to even look beyond the ruins of the world, the heart of the green gryphon spoke whispers of hope that had come after two decades of life as a contracted gun. It was true that there was little to believe in, where it came to people, but the green gryphon held a strange faith in the adaptability of the world. True, it might take hundreds of centuries to become fertile, and longer for anything smart enough to know which end of a gun to point down, but life would grow again.
Hopping over a gap in the road, the gryphon lead the collumn with a limp - a limp he painfully ignored, but a limp. Xhosa had insisted on bandaging his injuries and he had let her once they had gotten clear of the structure. An energetic sweep of the lower floors had netted him enough goods to repair his body armor - or at least cover the holes left from rifle rounds. He had replenished his gernades with two bundles of dynamite. He would have far prefered gernades, but he wouldn't complain about a free replacement. The ground curved southward at a lazy, listless meandering, and it would be days before he had to make a turn.
The Zebra kept pace with him - but she made him slow that the two foals could keep up. She refused to go faster, and encouraged them to keep going. A sand-yellow filly and a sky-blue colt, they bore signs of their abuse with grim determination - and perhaps knowledge that they could feel pain in the future. The colt carried a bundle of dynamite over his flanks and a badly cared for spear - the filly, herself, had a rifle slung across her back. The blue colt was a tough one, but the eyes of the filly were filled with determination to see the two of them rescued. Neither spoke much, which was perfectly fine for the gryphon. The filly was called Junewei, or so he had overheard. The male had refused to give a name, but his sister had spoken up, indicating it to be Baohuzhe.
It was nearing night fall when the gryphon slowed - a shack was in view and was a well used rest stop along the old route Z-238. The gryphon had set out from the shack the day before, and was glad to be in sight of rest. He felt the aches in his haunches and back, his wing was a sharp red dagger in his head, and he needed to reorganize himself before the next stage of the trip was ready. The others were tired and dishevled themselves - and could barely keep up with him. The land was cruel to those who could not keep themselves healthy and ready to fight for every inch of ground. He would not do them cruelty by slowing his pace
Seven hundred and fifty bottle caps lay within' a pouch, and the pouch hung from the neck of the bandaged gryphon. The camp had been glad to recieve their tribemate back. The zebras had been hesitant to do anything with the foals, but gladly parted with a few extra supplies for the two after a single long stare of the gryphon. They followed, clutching zebra made spears and wearing hoof-woven blankets, which would insulate against the rain that drizzled down over head. The two foals didn't ask if they could follow the gryphon, and he did them the same courtesy of not telling them to go the other way. All in all, it worked well for all parties involved.
And so it was, a full seven days later, the gryphon entered into the comfort of his well defended camp - a camp ruled by the Six Claw clan. The camp was little more than train cars pulled into a rough, but highly defensive fortification. It was crude, and it was ugly - but gryphons thrived on function over form. The moat, lain with stakes, rebar spikes, and bodies no one had bothered cleaning out, was enough without high walls and sharp shooters. Still, when it came to defense a rule was always 'Overkill is the best defense'.
The two foals followed, and the guards, after initial challenge, let them pass through the machine-gun guarded gate.
After sorting out their place - which was at his side until morning, where he'd work out exactly what to do with them, he mounted the steps to his home. They stayed at the bottom floor and were given reign toe at from his fridge - an old box that still kept things somewhat luke-warm-cool after two hundred years of service. He glowered at them despite himself. They didn't make much noise. He was glad.
And as he took up his bottle of whiskey and sat on his matress, over-looking the open windows of what might have been a conductors cart, he sighed. He was sore. He was tired. His wing, though the pinion bones had been given a free treatment by the shaman, would take months to regrow. His haunch hurt and the room was lonely. He looked up at the over-cast skies, the dark of the wasteland falling into a quiet slumber.
He drifted off, with the whiskey against his chest and his back against the wall. He drifted, to thoughts of the next day, when he would put down his armor, and once more be Instructor Muninn, teacher of cubs. He slept with a smile.
