What could be said of the Reavers that were not already said in many poems and epics? They were a team of Gryphon master swordsmen, axmen, spearmen, arrow and crossboltmen - you name it, they had them. When the Gryphon Empire gained the technology of firearms, they suddenly needed a new addition to their team. Riflemen. I was one of the best, of this early technology. My name is Karl Gusteck, I was born in the Skyllian Falls east of Featherdrop Point. Rather than saying this is my story, my journey and my hopeful adventure - I am going to tell you the cold hard truth of what happened through my service as a Reaver and how I, myself, became the Reavers in its entirety. Consider this a confessional, for there is no glory to be found in these words. Before I was a riflemen, I was a failed crossbow marksman and before even that - I was a struggling author, who wished to pen beautiful stories and epics. I first became aware of the Reavers when I wrote a small story about them, about Reaver George. Their most famous member no doubt. It started nearly a decade ago, with his most courageous act.

You see, Reaver George was more than just a Gryphon, he upheld this belief that there needed to be a line drawn between us bird folk and the dreaded beasts that inhabited our neighboring lands. Dragons, they are a greedy bunch and a greedy problem - taking care of them was costly and required a lot of finances. At the time, before they became obsessed with money and fame, it was the Reavers who would perform such a monumental task without anything but the good will to do so. George was a cunning Gryphon, with black armour to match his feathers and a red cape for thematic effect. He was the definition of a Spiritual Liege, or a rather a soldier-saint. He was a Golden Legend, despite being ark as night. In the small city-state of Silene, the small town of Lasia put out a wanted poster calling for the Reavers' assistance. George was the only one brave enough to answer the call.

Beside the town's small lake was the dragon, known as Count Grish'nack. Of course, he did not deserve the title of "count", as it was given to him sarcastically by the local villagers. They offered him gems, fortunes, even hatchlings and fledglings - but the plague bearing Grish'nack continued to poison the country side. Two sheep a day and an orphan did not sate its hunger, it would constantly raid the neighboring towns within Silene and destroyed all those who opposed him. George felt that he was soon to face the very personification of The Great Magi. For those unfamiliar with our religion, the "Thulean Fellowship", it is named after the Gryphon Empire's capitol city. Thule was where the brave and noble George descended from, his sainthood was also marked there in what was now the Reaver headquarters. In our beliefs, The Great Magi was a magician, a hook-beaked eagle that crafted the world from his own magical realm. He created us from clay and fancied us rook pieces on a chessboard, however - to his greatest of faults, he bestowed upon Gryphons free-will. With free-will, gave us independence. And a God without a people to rule, became a wickedly evil devil. Creation turned against Creator.

George agreed to take on the contract, but mentioned that this was a rare time a Reaver would need some sort of payment, due to the extensive risks of taking on a dragon. A dragon that was believed to be none other but an abomination, spread across the land by the Great Magi to punish us for our sins. Our sins of independence. As we were created in the visage of slaves. George firmly believed in this, some could call him a zealot even. He said that if he could rid them of the dragon, the people of Silene would have to become apostates from their own damnable pagan religion, which was the worship of the Great Magi and all of his creations. "Free yourselves from the binds of theocratic slavery," Reaver George preached. "I have not come to save you from the wicked dragon, but from the snakes of a religion you folks call your own." Desperate, the Silenians agreed that a church would be placed in Lasia.

While they all conversed among themselves on the decision, the dragon Count Grish'nack suddenly emerged from the lakeside. It attacked the city of Lasia and George was forced to craft a coat of arms, to fight against the darkness the creature carried with him. George returned with a shield that bared a green crooked cross, representing the branching destinies of an independent people. George was amused to see the dragon was in fact a lowly, diseased wyvern. He slayed it none-the-less with a great lance. Afterwards, he buried the beast in salt and on its foundation, a church dedicated to the Thulean Fellowship was commissioned. Fifty thousand Gryphons, including the king of Silene converted over the course of ten years. It was even said that a water spring that cured all diseases appeared just near the lakeside former-home of Count Grish'nack. The Reavers were known from there on end as crusaders of the faith, heroes of the people. They were... we were everything that the world wanted us to be. The Gryphon Empire had a force against those who walked in the shadow of the Great Magi, a candle light in the eternal darkness.

But times have changed. War has changed and ergo, so have warriors. I wish I knew this before I enlisted with the Brother Reavers. Fate had a strange way of turning people into heroes. My creamy-white feather complexion didn't complement my dark beak anymore than my childish, bright golden eyes. I looked better fitted singing songs at a tavern, strumming a hardly-tuned string instrumental. When I traveled from my native town of Brishmore to the city of Thule, I had little but the feathers on my wings and a ruck-sack of small belongings. The Thulean City was a sight to behold. I flew forth and perched myself on a wooden bench in the city square. The city was founded by a Clan of Snow Owls, lead by none other than a Hippogryph. Ironic, how a sub-species would establish the capitol for the main species. Yet, it made sense and said plenty for the city I stood in now.

My mother once said my eyes shined like the best of jewels, diamonds and crowns that could be found for sale in Thule. I guess she was partially right, in the slums I found some shiny tiaras but in the main city - the modest, humble folks did not flaunt their immense wealth. However, the Reavers were a different story. Their castle was seven stories high with golden perches at the top for their scouts, who looked like monstrous bastards, ready to rip your throat out with their talons. Even from ground level, I felt their eyes stare holes into me from way above. My invitation to approach the Reaver compound was given to me a month ago, I was a week late due to traveling complications. I could only hope now that they would allow me to enter in the first place.

Having knocked on the door and waited patiently for a solid few minutes, my mind began to wonder. Was this really happening? Was I truly set, to besiege the enemies of the Great Magi along a brotherhood of courageous individuals? Why was I scared in a time like this, where I should have been nothing but happy. This looming darkness of the future suffocated me, the only thing to break me out of the trance was the chirpy speech by a sudden stranger. "Ah, you must be our new d'Artagnan". Of course, I turned - a bit startled and my youthful gaze was cast upon a tall Gryphon with an honest smirk. He looked like a noble, in his expensive threads and leather-padded, casually-worn armour. This was indeed the place, as the small flags and draperies outside suggestions - stripes of black and orange were the colours of the Reavers. My new-found acquaintance's entire colour scheme was that of "Reaver George's Ribbon". He looked as if he had just flew out of a Golden Legend himself. "You must be our newest Musketeer, eh? Well, our only one for that matter."

I blinked, unsure of what to say with my brain subconsciously bathing in questions. "I am Karl Gusteck, of Brishmore. I sent in an application awhile ago and was accepted for an interview, however, I know I am late." I did not help but gulp, it was unfortunate that it was very audible as a lot of saliva had packed itself in my beak. The stranger chuckled at me, his modest brown feathers flowed with the sudden gush of wind that pushed some dust from the cobblestone beneath us directly into my face. As my eyes burned a gentle red, I coughed and continued on as if nothing had happened, even though my expression could tell a million tales about the taste of dirt in the corners of my mouth. "I appreciate the reference to Comte d'Artagnan from the Three Musketeers, but even the title of Musketeer is a bit too flattering for me. As of now, I am a modest riflemen of reality - while Comte is from a tale of fiction, a fairly recent one as a matter of fact..."

The stranger waved a talon at me, his grin became a bit more warm. "You are a smart one, I will give you that. Just as you suggested in the application. Lucky for you, I am a Gryphon of the arts myself. I'm fond of literature, as I understand from your diction, or rather - your lexicon... you are a writer." He was right. I could tell in his eyes that he knew it too. His confidence was a bit overwhelming. My own eyes wandered from his bright, jade green ones down to his belt. He had an impressive sword strapped to him. It was curved, something not common in these lands. Especially among the noble folk and noble places of living, which preferred straight swords and rapiers. "The funny thing is, while yes - the Three Musketeers is a recent bit of literature, it is also in fact based on truth. So think not of it as a tabloid, a piece of fantasy to reflect the current coming of age. D'Artagnan is indeed a real person, I know for I have met him. He is a musketeer serving under King Lovitch as we speak."

I was a bit speechless. So often I have read books, of tales and never once thought of them to be anything but fiction. I should have known better, for even the ridiculous and silly tale of George Reaver had much truth behind it. The truth was lot to time, as it was a tale passed down through spoken word and off-hand drawings by unknown, amateur artists with very few actual documents providing concrete relevance. To know that D'Artagan was a real, breathing Gryphon among us came as a bit of a shock. "I must admit, I did not know... So I must ask for you to forgive me of ignorance, for obviously, you are not only a Brother Reaver but a fellow brother in culture..." I bowed my head slightly in respect, but I raised it quickly when the stranger tapped his talons on the top of my head and then flicked my beak once I was face-level with him again. "I'm sorry, I forget you are all such a humble bunch, no need for the formalities, right...? We're all from common birth after all.

"Pavel. My name is Pavel, I may be a Sir and a 'Pavel Of So-And-So'... but you are correct, formalities bore and frankly I am more for jests and humour. For that is our Reaver motto, 'To Enjoy and To Excite'." The stranger announced to him, however I could even call him a friend now, as we spoke on a first name basis. I did not even receive his patronymic nor his knightly title. In a moment's notice, I was swept away in conversation with this man. We walked side by side along the stone walls of the Brother Reaver headquarters. "We never let anyone in through the front door, so don't you worry about that, D'Artagnan. I am going to care of you, as far as I am concerned - you are a Brother Reaver in training and I am going to keep you under my wing." It seemed appropriate at the time, but Pavel did not bring me anywhere near the secret entrance to the castle I was expecting. Instead, we trotted out toward the backstreets, where light hardly dared to visit.

I continued the conversation. "So, why not through the front door? Is something wrong with it or is it merely because we do not want people to see how easy it is to become a Reaver?"

The joke was well received. "Ha, a classic one you are, boy! A writer and a joker, are you sure you did not apply to become our new jester?" The Gryphon raised a single talon on their left hand, their fancy leather glove was missing a few finger-ends. With a sharp talon, he plucked an apple from a nearby stall we passed, I assumed it was part of being a Reaver. Being able to take a 'charity donation' from any of the local marketplaces in return for their unpaid good deeds. Pavel was strange however, the way he carried himself was more dramatic than I anticipated. The small hen-looking wench that ran the apple stall seemed to look away, wary.

"Seems like you have an interesting reputation around here. You'd think that people would be more happy to see a Reaver walking about, not just flying above doing what best he can to stay out of the spotlight. The code of Humility and all that." I subtly interrogated.

"You really are well read, you now that? I like you kid, I really do." Pavel snapped into the apple and swallowed the chunk without even bothering to chew. "We have a lot of work to do, you and me. Initiations and all that."

I must admit, I was puzzled. "Initiations? I thought us- uhh... well, you knights were above all that sort of thing. The somber type, serious with not much play..." Pavel seemed to get nervous at this.

"What are you implying, d'Artagnan? We are more than just poems, legends and heroic tales. We are individuals, with personality, with individuality - as it implies. After all, we all follow the Thulean Fellowship. That is what makes us good, makes our religion good. Indeed, we are taxed heavily and there are no rich men - but there are no beggars, either! We take care of each other, we do not need any Great Magi's eyes watching over us, nor do we sniff the feathers of his magical magician hind-quarters to please our pagan ways." As he spoke, I did not realize he had lead me into one of the backalleys. It was strange to see such a poor place, in an otherwise beautiful location. The cobblestone streets ended long ago, only dirt was felt and the smell of something or someone dying.

"Why are we here, Pavel?" I looked around. It was hard to find a discernible reason. I spotted someone's head poking out from a window near the end of the narrow corridors of rotting exterior shops. Half of a full body emerged with a small wingspan, if there was one at all - it waved us in. "A friend of your's?"

The playful grin of Pavel turned to something dastardly. It made a few ice cubes of chilling uneasiness enter my bloodstream. What was I getting myself into? "Do not worry, d'Artagnan. I am your friend, you are my wing mate. And as part of the initiation, I have to make sure you are a man not a boy. Before once can take life, even from the most wicked of creatures, one must be well suited with its brother-act. The making of life." His gloved hand prodded me from the side, he lead me further down the corridor. I gulped, audibly as like before. I was unsure of everything now and whether this person was even a Reaver or a mere swindler, maybe I had fallen into a trap without realizing it. "My friend, my friend, do not worry."

I stopped just before the entrance into a rather suspicious looking, back-alley household. "I understand the need of uhmm... friendship and comradeship and all. But if your intentions are to fuck me, I have to say you are greatly mistaken Pavel." I was proud of myself, protecting my pride and saying what needed to be said.

"Oh no, no, no, you got it all wrong. I may dress well and nice, but that goes for all Reavers, my friend. We are a hardy bunch, deep down. And traditional, conservative, even at that. Remember, not even the Thulean Faith looks fondly upon that sort of feather-plucking degeneracy." Pavel winked at me, it failed to make me any more comfortable. I entered the doorway and found myself in a room that smelled greatly of burnt sage. It failed to comfort me. Pavel progressed forward and soon we were in numerous, interchanging and connecting corridors. The smell of opium and sex was strong. It failed to comfort me. Each doorway we passed, draped with exotic, somewhat transparent fabrics to conceal what was inside besides dancing shadows - failed to comfort me. We were in a whorehouse. "You are a smart person, can you guess what I am going to ask you next?"

"About my virginity...?" I answered correctly, according to his chuckle. "Fine, I will admit. I have never plucked a feather besides my own before, but to be honest this is something... that is meant to be sacred, no? This act of courtship? It is so strange that we are knights in the service of the Thulean perspectives, yet I doubt this fits well into the verses supporting Knightly Celibacy."

My companion patted my head, as if I were a child. Truth be told, his demeanor and towering, almost possessing presence made me feel like one. "Young one, you little young feather... As I said before, how can you take a life from a beast without knowing how to create life within a beauty?"

"Poetic words, poetic words. Did you make them yourself?" I questioned. Of course, I knew the real answer.

"I believe they were your own." He was right. "It was in your application, after all? Did you not ask if you were allowed to marry and enjoy life during your training, before you took the final vows of celibacy and knight hood?"

It didn't add up, it hardly made sense. Somehow Pavel knew everything was to know about me and had even read my application. Was he a friend or a foe? Was he truly helping me, was he even a Reaver? For all I knew, he could have been a misguided, mentally deranged mail-bird who had stuck his talons into other people's business far too often, even that of the Reavers. "Perhaps you are right, I should partake in some fruits of life before the fruits of labour, right...?"

Pavel shoved me into one of the shrouded rooms.

Author's Note

Once again, I do apologize for any errors in this submission!
I do not currently have someone willing to read through my work combing for errors and I find it very difficult to bring myself to do so due to my other obligations and the fact that english is far from my first language in the first place.