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.
The images swirled around within the utter abyss, unrelenting as the time pounded on; every moment passed with horrors and despair eating away at him. He had waded through blood for what felt like years, the smell of it in his nostrils, the taste under his tongue, the feel between his talons. But nothing was as bad as the bodies. Thousands of innocents, whether they were mothers or fathers, or children; they all lay out butchered and hacked to pieces, rotting and decaying without graves. He shivered and reached out, struggling to escape the blood, but it kept rising up like a sentient flood. His mind panicked and his beak opened to scream, but ten voices cried out, some in anger, some in pain, some in despair, some in pride.
The howls of the thousands of souls rumbled before something else erupted into his nightmares. It was light, yet it was dark. A soft, sleepy blue wisp flowed through the darkness. The scent of flowers touched his nose even through the thick scent of blood. It was somehow soothing, but the sweet nectar like flavor hanging in the air caused a whole new set of terror that boiled up from within him. You failed! You failed and now it's gone, you have nothing! The scent was like that of a divine presence reaching down to him, though every single inch it crept forward, guilt tore his body more and more to pieces. It was majestic and the very essence of grace and beauty, but feeling its mere presence made his mind demand the end of his life. It was a grace he did not deserve, a grace that he should never even be considered for.
His shivering body gave into the demands of his mind; he crumpled and he gave up; it was too much, and now he desired only release from the pain. He stopped struggling, and the blood rose up to swallow him, the talons and hooves of the dead gripping him and pulling his body under. He could see the swirling wisp gracefully swooping about as the blood seeped into his feathers and pulled him in, pooling over his eyes and then beyond; he was completely submerged. He let his breath out, hearing it bubble under the thick crimson sea. He stirred when the feel of pressure within the sanguine flood told him it had been impacted and the surface of the blood was penetrated with great force. Something harshly grabbed him and forced him to the surface. For a moment he thought it was just the horrors not quite done making him suffer. However, when he surfaced the blue wisp pulled him in and things became dull, like he was looking through dirty glass; he could not focus. The more this happened, the more he understood that it was always like this.
He reached out to with his talons to the wisp as if to feel the soft silky touch of its deep sky blue tendrils, like touching the stars themselves. His attention shattered and the world began to crumble; he could feel his heart racing in his chest and pain erupted in his body that sent him reeling. He could hardly breath and the familiar tension of stitches pulling at his flesh made things more clear. He felt vulnerable; panic swept up into him, and his mind screamed the danger to him. You are in danger! There is something looming over you.
His eyes snapped open and he screamed so loud that his throat began to trickle blood. His talons shot forward and seized the first thing they touched in front of him, trying to squeeze the life out of it. It reacted very quickly, almost expertly. As if his talons were covered in soap, his grip slipped, letting the figure he had grabbed dart back out of reach. The tingle of magic told him this was a defensive counter through magic; still, his, talons left long marks that instantly began to seep red as they raked across flesh. Suddenly, something froze him in place and struck him with despair enough for him desire death once more. The sound of the screams, they were fright and fear, but again, they were young. Not soldiers or beasts on the battlefield, they were the voices of the young, voices of mothers, sisters, daughters.
He did not resist as what he figured was a magical power seized him and forced him back with tremendous force. Even when he felt very obviously broken bones that had just barely began to set re-break and stir his flesh, he submitted. He felt stitches pop and joints crackle as a dark blue pony stared at him gasping for air. Her horn flared in a panicked spell that was unusually strong, her wings flared out and gave a few beats before they folded again.
"Calm down everypony... he’s fine, that was just a reaction; he was just very scared... his nightmare was very bad..." The dark blue pony released him, but the sound of armor hastily clanking told him that next time it might be a spear through his chest and not a firm magical push.
"Your Majesty! Are you alright?" His eyes were only open to vague slits to observe the world around him as his labored breathing and severe headache made everything sound dull over the constant ring in his ears.
"Yes, I am fine. Go return to the hallway..." The sound of armored ponies moved back through the door and he opened his eyes as wide as he could to let the pony know that he was indeed awake. He was not very successful, but she did take notice.
"I am sorry..." His voice was raspy and half gurgled by what he could only guess was blood in his throat. His body was on fire with pain, but somehow just looking into the eyes of the mare he almost killed out of reflex was more painful than the shattered bones grinding against each other and tearing at his flesh.
"It is alright, I will survive. And after seeing what you have going on in that head of yours, I don't quite blame you for that reaction. Just stay calm."
He did his best to nod before suffering through the pain of tilting his head in either direction to notice there was six other colorful ponies and a Zebra in the room. He could not bring himself to look them in the eyes; every time he strayed close to doing so, he saw the empty, dead eyes of those back in the sea of blood. Cringing, he broke into a shiver again. The dark blue one quickly noticed and spoke.
"Calm down... it’s ok... you are safe. Just tell me, what is your name?" She took her time to lean in, carefully looking deep into his eyes. She felt a massive level of malice within him, but she also sensed it was not his own. So long as the griffon in front of her was who she was talking to, she was confident she was safe.
"...I... I don't know." His mind raced back, trying to grasp anything it could that would serve as his own identity. But nothing came up. "T..Tyr..in. Tyrin." Two seconds passed, and he kicked himself, realizing that it was a reflexive combination of the names he heard in his head from the two griffons that tried to kill him. Whatever it sounds griffin enough.
"Tyrin? That doesn't sound like a griffon name." His eyes focused and picked up the one talking, a pegasus with a cyan blue coat and mane of vibrant rainbow colors. Her voice sounded confident and almost arrogant, though her body language showed that she was still plenty frightened by what had just happened. But he could smell a fighting spirit in her. She was startled, but she could not afford to be scared. As if it was more important to her that the others knew she was strong enough not to be afraid. It was strangely relatable.
He did his best to reach out with his weak voice. "I was hoping it would sound griffon. I don't know what my name really is." He tried to keep track of all the movement in the room; curiously, he did not know why; it felt like something he had to do, but one pony in the room was a nightmare to try and track. The fuzzy pink mane bounced like jello every time she moved, which was constantly.
"Oh oh oh! Ask him about the ink!" The pink pony shouted as she bounced about. An orange pony moved a hoof over the pink one's head as if to hold her still.
"Calm down there, sugar cube; let the griffon rest; he don't have to go through everything at once." She stepped back and stretched her legs before backing through a pair of curtains he seemed to recognize.
"I am in a hospital?" The conclusion was a little odd to him; it looked like something he should not recognize, but at the same time, it was clear and obvious to him.
Another voice chimed in, thick with concern. "That is kinda where you go when you fall a thousand feet and break half the bones in your body, even if somepony broke your fall." Her voice sounded easy to follow, like a teacher, well informed.
"I fell on a pony?" The all too familiar pang of guilt shot through him yet again.
The other side of the curtains groaned in a pained deep bass voice. "Eeeyup!"
He looked to the curtains and rasped out, "I am sorry, are you okay?"
The voice moaned again with a cough and a loud pop. "Nope!"
"Oh, you shush and stop squirmin’ ya hear?" He could make out the orange pony's hoof falls, but it mixed with somepony else, much slower and weaker.
"So you just have amnesia? Darling, that sounds just dreadful." The sound of a white unicorn's voice made him twitch. Something about the cultured flare drove some anger to the surface. But he kept it in check.
"I honestly have no idea; chances are, you know more about me and what is going on than I do." He picked out another form in the room, a yellow pony who shook and shivered with fear. He wanted to speak to her, to apologize and promise he would not hurt her, but looking at her trembling form triggered the memories which felt like fire in his chest and cold sludge in his belly. The others did not seem too concerned; he moved to the conclusion that she was just excessively sensitive and very faint of heart, and her friends were just very used to it. He still made a note to find her and deeply apologize to her later.
"Calm down now... do you by any chance notice or feel anything... strange?" The tall dark blue one inched closer to listen to his weak voice.
"Strange ho..." The memory of his swipe at the wire that had kept him in place played back in his mind. The image of the blazing black flames licking across the air. He swallowed and shivered lightly, trying to clear his mind. "Strange how…?"
She looked at him with raised eyebrows and then back at the purple one, who nodded; the blue one raised a mirror for him to see. Other than dark contusions and cracks in his beak accompanied by stitches and swelling which helped explain his severe pain, there was also something else. It looked like runny tar had flowed from his eyes like a fountain, staining his fur. "You have been crying this black ink out ever since you landed on the farmer." The purple one’s tone was thick with curiosity and caution. She clearly thought it was dangerous, yet was utterly intoxicated with the aspect of something she did not know. Curiosity killed the cat, child; watchyour step.
He was more surprised that he was not surprised by the fact that he was crying darkness while he slept. "Its new to me, but I do know something odd; I am not quite clear on how things are supposed to work, but... are griffons supposed to be able to do magic?"
The blue one looked very surprised as the purple one had a face of pure joy and excitement. "That is not normal at all, but I am assuming you are asking because you can? Can you show me please?" The purple one's smile was almost unnerving.
"I don't know if I can, but I know I did. I shot black flames out of my talons" He raised his arm and looked at the now rather limp set of talons that were once menacing. However, they now just hung loose in a broken splint; he assumed broke when he woke up.
"Enough for now... Twilight, you and your friends go back to the castle; I thank you for calling me for this; if you had not, then he would have died. But he needs his rest; go on home." There was a few groans and five left. Then the zebra spoke in hushed tones with the dark blue pony. He could just make out the rise and fall of her tones that suggested she was speaking in a rhythm or rhyme. A few moments later the orange pony came out again and left with the zebra just after she gathered up her primitive looking bottles and jars. The dark blue pony nodded to him. "Good night, Tyrin..."
He relaxed, closing his eyes, but his beak opened and he spoke. "Selenicereus grandiflorus..."
She flinched and looked back at him. She knew what it meant, but seemed surprised that he had said it. "Wha…?"
"The desert moon flower; rare, beautiful, smells kinda like vanilla... it’s your perfume; it’s beautiful. But... please do not wear it next time. I don't know why, but it hurts..." He slowed and rolled the name he had only just given himself around in his mouth like it was a physical thing. "Tyrin..."
He looked back up at her and spoke again. "It’s also called Queen of the Night." His eyes drifted to her neck; the scratches had stopped bleeding, but it still sparked up shame inside him. "I am sorry, I hurt you."
She did not move or react for a moment but then a smile spilled over her lips. "Tis nothing to worry about. Thank you, Tyrin; ‘Queen of the Night’..." She chuckled. "You are quite the flatterer." Her horn flared, and the marks faded away, leaving only the soft crimson lines where the blood had touched her fur.
Without another word she up and left. He sat and stared at the wall for a moment. Minutes passed, and a nurse came and re affixed his splint. He was almost asleep when he heard a deep, loud snore. It was just a few moments more, and slow hoof falls started out the room. He peeked across the room flexing his left talons, happy those were not broken. A scent caught his nose just as he saw a very old green mare walk out from behind the curtains towards the door.
"Excuse me, Ma'am." She paused, and he could smell it much clearer; it was something he needed badly. "Is that hard cider?"
She paused, looking him over. Not sure whether to feign ignorance because she brought alcohol into the hospital or to just nod. A few more seconds passed, and she nodded. "Nothin’ but the Apple family's secret recipe!"
"I know it's kind of straightforward and I might not be allowed to, but may I have it? There are some things waiting for me in my sleep that I would rather not be able to see."
She looked him with eyes that had seen many things; eyes that seemed to know exactly what he spoke of. She peeked towards the door then looked him over again. "Ya won't be wantin’ the hard cider then; here ya go, just take some of Granny Smith's secret stuff. It will knock you on your plot and back. Keep it under yer pillow. But hide it under ya when the nurse with the red mane comes in; she checks there, dang busy body nurse..." The old pony let off a warm smile before tossing him a full flask. "Come and bring back the flask to the farm when you're done."
He did his best to smile and raised the flask as if to toast to her. "Thank you, ma'am." She smiled again and left. As the sleep started to creep back up on him, he popped the top and downed half the bottle, which felt like a pony bucking him right in the mouth, then again in the throat and in the gut when he swallowed the strong fluid. He felt the warmth flood him, and he slipped the flask into his cast that formed around his left wing.
He closed his eyes and braced himself for the dark abyss of nightmares once again.
