Chapter 1: Perierat

He blinked. His talons rose as his sharp eyes peered at them. He quickly looked over his body. "Griffon…?" His beak felt weird as it moved about with his speech. His muscles were conditioned and taut. Upon closer inspection he could see dozens of very small scars over his body, expertly healed from very old wounds. His feathers were wet with something that was not water; his whole body was, in fact. His soft gray fur turned dark under the eerily cold and almost despairing feel of this fluid. It did not take him long to simply look behind him. Just five meters behind him, he saw a hole carved in the old limestone ruin, with wet tracks leading leading out of it all the way to his current position.

        Every talon-laid limestone slab must have been masterfully set in this ancient place thousands of years ago. The centerpiece of the room was what he now stared at. The hole was a bubbling, swirling well. The closer he got, the more he could feel a strangely familiar coldness. Something told him he knew the feeling well, but it still scared him. In his mind he searched for the name of this place, though nothing came. His mind not only held no name for the place, it held little else.

        He thought hard; his mind churned and blazed back, trying to recall anything. Sensations touched his mind and tickled his feelings, but he could not remember how he even got into the room, much less what his name was. He ran his talons through his fur and feathers, and he  discovered that was not entirely naked. He had some armor. Very light, skirmisher or ceremonial. He cringed in pain from something he did not see or understand. It simply felt like something simultaneously ice-cold and blazingly hot was sliding into his brain, so intense it brought him to his knees. A thick layer of dust stuck to his wet feathers, and he groaned. Though the pain was great, what was catching in his mind was that he recognized the military possibilities of his attire. Pushing himself upright, he rubbed his head. "At least there is something in there..."

        He yanked off a piece of the armor and peered over it to see the words Mors est in haereticis engraved deep into the enchanted metal. His mind instantly recognized the writing but refused to let him in on it. It was like a tantalizing hunk of knowledge before him; the answer was at the tip of his tongue, but no matter how hard he tried, nothing would make it come out. It was not just the translation, but the name of the language, why it was on the armor, who the armor belonged to. It was not a far stretch to assume that he was a member of a military order of some sort. His mind poked and prodded at the idea. Upon close inspection, his body was very fit. More so than a normal soldier, not to mention the scars and the calluses on his talons.  He clearly had been using his talons for something over a very long period of time, handled tools.

        He whipped his tail back and forth before pouncing on it for inspection. There were several bands tightly wrapped about it in various places. It was unclear whether it was ritualistic, fashion, or some sort of ineffective-looking armor. He let his tail go and looked about again. Yet again he cringed in terrible pain, letting out a pained yelp and stumbling into the wall for support. His eyes clenched shut. Opening them, he felt blood spattered across his face and about his body, a blade in his talons plunging into the heart of a draconequus cradling a child. A feminine face twisted in horror and pain. His eyes snapped open again to see he had not made it to the wall. Struggling upright, he puked and staggered back. He hoped to whatever deity was listening that what he saw was some sick joke, or a deception. It wrenched at his gut and caused more pain than he could handle.

        "What the bloody Tartarus?!" He shivered, then smashed his balled talons into the wall. His joints popped and creaked; the pain helped him focus his mind away from the memory. His breathing was ragged and his heart was beating out of his chest. He stood, forcing his body to remain still and not shiver. His throat seized, and by sheer willpower he steadied his breathing. He was just starting to get it settled when he blinked and everything went to darkness once again.

        "Your breathing, boy! STEADY IT!"  A one-eyed griffon glared at him angrily. Though no matter how hard he stared at the old one, he could not see the old griffon’s face; he could only feel the pain in his limbs, see the raised welts from being beaten with the training swords over his young body. He could feel it, he was young, so young that he had only just learned to fly. And now he was learning to fight as was proper. "The clans need warriors, boy! You will be that warrior!" His sharp yells were quickly drowned out by another memory sneaking up and into his mind. He could see the old griffon, a broken blade lodged in his throat. His last words gurgled through the blood filling his lungs. "That's my boy…!" Then death with a smile.

        The memory shattered and he regained his awareness as the olive wood doors at the very far end of the room, burst open, practically tearing the ancient doors off its hinges. Two griffons soldiers strode in, clad beak to claw in heavy steel armor; these bulky combatants quickly spotted him. One stepped forward with a what looked like a relieved smile. The other, however, shot a taloned grip out and halted the first. His head shook firmly from side to side and he looked back at the lost griffon. Without a word, the guard tapped his poleaxe on the ground twice and waited. The amnesiac griffon had no idea what this meant or what to do. The hope-filled smile on the first guard vanished, and the other leveled his weapon at the forgetful griffon.

        His eyes widened, seeing the bladed weapon aimed at him, and the guards began their charge at with martial precision. The actions before the open hostility demanded that questions be answered, but he felt he would not have long to ponder the actions. The first weapon swung, and something tickled the fringes of his mind; as if a voice spoke, but through feeling. Not words, but the base instincts that occur to feed the mind and trigger words. Ternin swings too* *wide; stepinto it.**

        He moved quickly, stepping into the blow before raising his talons to counter the swing by striking the guard’s elbow safely outside of the reach of the poleaxe. A balled up mass of talons smashed into the guard's throat as his tail whipped about behind the guard’s legs; grasping the end of of the tail in his talons, the amnesiac griffon dashed forward, yanking the stunned guard's paws from under him and meeting the second guard half way. Within the talons of the second guard was a white war pick. It looked like it was carved from bone and weighed down with metal. He struggled with the word for the weapon in his other hand but settled on “tonfa”  Metyr is young,* *new; hismettle has not been truly* tested; hewill be easy to scare off.* His wings opened in a sudden flash as he let his armor catch the pick, sinking in but not doing much to his actual body beside giving it a small bruise. His talons found a kink in the armor of his foe, plunging in and tearing shallow wounds in the guard's chest. He could see the look on the young guard’s face. The youth was filled with terror by the sight of his own blood. The moment the blood trailed back with his withdrawing talons and the griffon's mind exploded once more; screams filled his ears; the images flashed before his eyes. Not soldiers, but children, and women. Mares, fillies and colts, hatchlings and more; things that could not fight back, soaked in blood against stone and cold steel. By reflex, he turned and his wings blurred with speed as he did his best to flee.

        His momentum came to a sudden halt when a bladed weapon plunged into his back and a wire pulled taut. As if harpooned, he was now being held in place by the first guard, who had only just came back to his paws. The guard was ready to give the stringed weapon a firm yank when a new emotion flooded the lost and confused griffon. Contempt. He made a sudden savage slash of his talons through the air, given the distance between them he could not quite make out why he had chosen to perform this action. Nevertheless, even more surprisingly, sickly black flames shot out and coated the floor and walls, quickly eating through the wire enough for him to be free once again. The power within felt good; it was pure domination, setting things right. He was in charge.

        Coughing and wincing at the pains within him, he realized that he had just done magic. He was not very confident in his memory, but something told him that griffons were not supposed to be capable of magic, and the way the dark magic clung to his body, like ink or runny tar, felt filthy. Just as fast as he had whipped about to take action, he turned again and took flight. Blasting off into the air, his wings beat in full heavy thrusts despite the blade in his back. Reaching back, he yanked it out and slid it beneath one of the many belts over his body. Pulling off what little armor he did have, he focused on putting as much distance as possible between himself and the strange ruin.

        His wings carried him as fast as he could go as his mind waged war within itself, trying to figure out what was going on; he felt unsafe and refused to land. He feared any further griffon action, as he was likely to be the target of more hostility. As such, he continued blazing his trail through the sky even when he noticed that there was water beneath him instead of land. He continued, following the sun and refusing to let his body slow. The wound in his back ached, and he still could not remember a single thing other than the events of the past few hours. Those were burned into his mind like a brand, and he poured himself over every last detail, trying to figure out everything he lacked.

        Hours passed, and he came to notice that the sun was setting; he continued west and did not look back. Ten hours later, he could vaguely see land below him, and his excessively physically fit body was at its end of its natural ability. Even without the wound and confusion or panic, he would have been close to simply passing out due to exhaustion. It was a miracle he had made it this far. His fur was clotted and matted with dried blood seeping from his wound, his wings felt like they were on fire; his eyelids felt like they were made of lead. He was more than just tired; this was utter exhaustion. He didn’t have the power to fight it anymore; his wings buckled and he entered free fall. Even if he had the mental strength to continue on, his physical stamina was depleted. His body would no longer listen to any commands, and he was already already losing consciousness in the air.

        The wind whistled past his head, but he did not notice or care. His ears popped at the rapid loss of altitude, but he was not awake to feel the discomfort. His body rocketed downward, toppling through the air as he plummeted. His eyes opened to narrow slits, just in time to witness a large blur zooming quickly up to him, but just as fast he slipped back into unconsciousness as the blur of a crystal castle zoomed up to meet him.