Gryphus

November
Eastern Griffon Kingdom
Camp Boreas, 19th Regiment, Army Group South

The barracks were almost empty. The second company had gathered in the yard that morning, and been sent off for leave. As such, Talonico found himself a duty officer in charge of the dozen griffons that had stayed behind. Technically but in practice not counting the officers.

Talonico was seated at the wide desk, surrounded by papers and files, some of them related to work and others to anything the bored soldiers could think of. Drawings, both artistic and less so, covered every surface that did not bear bad poetry. An unofficially improved edit of the Soldier’s Guide, the finest manual in existence, was opened on the page depicting a circular firing squad of a machine gun company.

The corporal had spent a while chatting with the griffoness that would replace him in the evening, until he had announced to the remaining griffons that the company would be doing thumb twiddling until four in the afternoon. The griffoness had announced that she would spend the time sleeping, and thirty seconds after that Talonico could hear her snoring.

After that Talonico found himself guarding an empty hallway with one eye, while the other was focused on an old novella passed around in the barracks. A few hours into the story he suddenly heard a door open, and snapped the book close. Captain Telesca marched in. Talonico immediately stood at attention, the bored look disappearing from his white face.

“Good…” Talonico glanced at the clock. “Noon, ma’am.”

“Good noon, Corporal,” the stout officer greeted back. “Well Nico, how has your day been? Anything to report?”

“It’s been boring, ma’am. Nothing has happened since the company left.”

“Good. Pass me yesterday’s report.”

Talonico scrambled to obey. Captain Telesca scanned the paper, before grunting. “There was a little altercation with an officer from the headquarters company, and a private from our battalion. Some griffoness was trying to sneak into the kitchen.”

Talonico kept his face expressionless.

“Ran off before she could be punished, so now we are checking who was out at the time. Do you have any idea who the culprit could be?”

“None, ma’am.”

“That is unfortunate,” Telesca said absentmindedly, before returning the report. “Well, there are a number of names here, and she could be any one of them. Let me know if you find out who did it.”

From the look in Telesca’s eyes Talonico knew she knew exactly who to yell at. She was simply giving him a chance to deal with the matter himself. Talone’s scrounging trips would have to end.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good, carry on. And let me know when the next issue of Old Republican comes.”

“Your good Captain seems to follow politics,” said another voice at the doorway. Captain Arc Weld trotted in, removing her cap as she came. Her steel gray greatcoat hung unbuttoned.

“It is the Republican Army,” Captain Telesca answered.

“Clearly not just a name. Mind if I borrow some of your Corporal’s time?”

“Go right ahead.”

Telesca left, and Arc Weld turned to Talonico, who was still standing at attention. “Oh come on Corporal, at ease.”

Talonico stepped into parade rest. Arc Weld stared at him. The griffon did not budge. “Relax.”

Talonico had predicted she would say that, but he still needed the order before being able to act normal around an officer, as much as he could with anyone that wasn’t Canales. He rolled his neck and took a few steps that felt amazing after sitting in one place for so long.

“Yes ma’am. So, you wanted to ask me something?”

“Oh yes. After coming to the Griffon Kingdom… well, in practice I was always AGS’s guest, I’ve spent a lot of time with officers. But only ever them, and I see they are mostly way richer than you and me. I want to know what the rank and file is like. At least in this battalion.”

“Well, um, ask away.”

“Why do you fight? During the Great War I fought to see an independent Mustangia, where foals would not have to work so their families would not starve.”

Talonico looked up. Why did he fight. He of course followed orders, but he was not just a machine. What would peace look like if he could have his way?

“Well, seeing the Feast Party gone is a good start. And like capt- Mama Livi said: Republican Army. The King fled when the war started, and we’ll manage without him.”

The mustang nodded approvingly. “Democracy sounds fine, doesn’t it?”

“No King to say that shooting civilians is fine, some kind of constitution to say everyone has rights… I like the sound of that.”

“And do you have any vision of what you’d do with that democracy?” Arc Weld asked, sounding genuinely interested.

“Vote for someone that can fix things,” Talonico said, only half joking. He shuffled the items on the desk around, settling into a more comfortable position. “The problem is that there’s only the Republican Movement. Had to pool resources before the war, and now they need to keep a united front.”

“It was like that during the Great War. Equalists and Unionists did their own thing, but everypony else was ‘Anti-Monarchist’. It wouldn’t have lasted after the war even if we’d won. I guess it is the same here.”

Talonico laughed. “Rich, poor, urban and rural, religious and secular, liberal and conservative. That’s… sixteen parties right there. But we’ll fly across that ravine when it comes.”

“Indeed Corporal. I believe you cheaped out when you said you want someone to fix things, but I’ll let it pass. I do like it when soldiers think instead of blindly obeying.”

The Mustang left, seemingly satisfied with the results of her interrogation. She was correct in that Talonico had cheaped out, giving a quick answer before he had been able to think. It wasn’t exactly a common thing for an officer to ask. What in Tartarus did he even mean with fixing things?

Pain flashed across Talonico’s wrist. He looked down at the claw bloodied by the bullet of a pistol. The griffon’s red eyes traveled up the sleeve, covered in bandages. Talonico blinked and the pain and blood were gone. His gaze rested on the rank insignia of his dress uniform. The two chevrons glimmered gold like the Feast Party’s butcher’s knife.

That was the answer, or at least the start of one. The Great Famine had killed griffons by
the thousands, but it had done something more to them, leaving scars that refused to fade.

The knife had to be pulled from the wound. Maybe then he’d no longer feel shame for being a griffon.

November
Eastern Griffon Kingdom
Fienswell, Army Group South

Bluecrest held Andrei in his claws, gently rocking the hatchling to sleep. His mother was already in bed, getting some sleep after a long day. Tartarus, it had been one long day after another for her ever since Bluecrest had left, with nobody to share the burden of life and of raising the hatchling.

He sat on the wood-framed, red and yellow couch standing right behind the door to the small room he and his wife lived in. It was cramped, hot during summer and cold during winter, but it was their home, and now they had brought new life to it.

Suddenly Andrei cried out, his shriek splitting the room. The hatchling was hungry.

“I’ll take care of it,” Bluecrest said to his wife, who was stirring in their bed. During lunchtime they would regurgitate fresh food for the hatchling, but otherwise they had a bottle of baby food ready in a glass jar. Bluecrest scooped some with a wooden spoon. The moment he tasted the food, Andrei’s crying stopped instantly, replaced with happy coos. He cleaned the spoon, and then started gnawing at it with curiosity. Deciding the wood was not too tasty, the bundle of pale down was happy to receive a second spoonful.

Now full, Andrei drifted into a calm sleep. When Zina woke up in the morning, she found her husband sleeping on the couch, their hatchling sleeping firmly in his claws, his military greatcoat draped over them both, shielding the hatchling from the world.

November
Eastern Griffon Kingdom
Army Group South

Talone was already drunk as she entered the tiny room she had rented for the night. It was not much, with a bed, a nightstand and barely any room to stand. It was still leagues ahead of where she had spent most of her nights as a teen. The orphanage had not intentionally neglected her, but they had simply been overwhelmed by the Great Famine.

The griffoness had shoved her uniform into her backpack, which was ready to go at a moment’s notice. There was no need for that, nobody would shake her up during the night to drive her away, but old habits were hard to shake off. Talone dropped off her cheap civilian clothes and rolled on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

She had taken the train heading to Griffonstone, and jumped off at a small town of a few thousand griffons. Large enough that she could simply fade into the crowd and spend the week of leave drinking, eating and fucking before heading back to the one place she could consider home.

Talone did not fall asleep. Her eyes traced the little contours and imperfections in the ceiling. It was odd to be alone again.

November
Eastern Griffon Kingdom
Filmont, Army Group South

Canales felt weird wearing something other than a uniform. It was not that she did not like her dress, she had picked it specifically because it suited her, but after having her neck chafed by the uniform’s coarse wool for years the soft cotton felt almost unnatural.

“Are you ready?” Asked her brother from the other side of the white door.

“Just a second. How the FUCK does this go on?”

“Miss, there is no need for such language,” a purple griffoness about Canales’ age chastised her. More experienced with fancy dress, she adjusted Canales’ corset, before frowning. According to the acceptable middle class trends, a corset should be used to help a griffoness achieve a lithe, predatory look. Canales had lost all her baby fat in the army, and then enough weight during the months at war that a doctor might have given her a concerned look.

The purple griffoness was one of the two maids in her father’s employment. A well paid senior bureaucrat, he owned a large apartment near the center of Filmont, a medium sized port town. The building was not quite a manor, no matter what the old bird said. Still, it was more than large enough for the family, and almost oppressively empty for Canales after sharing barracks with her platoon.

Canales was forcefully yanked from her musings as the maid pulled the corset far tighter than it had been meant to go, so that it would not hang off her barrel.

“Your blouse, miss,” she said as though Canales had not just let loose with a barrage of curses.

With the maid’s assistance, Canales put on a pink blouse with puffed sleeves and a white collar, followed by a long, broad hemmed skirt that almost reached the floor. While skirts were usually black, that would have been too similar to her coat’s color, and instead she had gone with a dark red design. A white, fur-lined coat and a black faux-leather bag finished the ensemble.

Canales thanked the maid, and grabbed the door handle to open it. She paused.

When Canales had sent the telegram informing her family of her leave, her father had organized a surprise celebration. When Canales had stepped through the front door, she had immediately been told that they would be going to a nearby restaurant. Technically she was expected to keep her dress uniform on for that, but that had felt wrong, just as wearing civilian clothes felt weird. Nothing at home seemed right, and she could tell that was exactly because everything was as it should be. The battlelines were something told of in the newspapers, where actions were described on one page, heroic soldiers on the second, and where the local dead had a single column for themselves.

Still, she could not keep her parents waiting. Canales took a calming breath, and opened the door. Yolanda stepped through to the corridor beyond, and greeted her brother. Their feathers were the same black streaked with hints of gray, but Yago’s throat and chest were of an orange color inherited from their mother.

“Hi,” he said, chuckling at something. Yolanda tilted her head quizzically.

“Mother happened to walk past just as you… said what you said.” Raised prim and proper, Yago was not about to repeat his sister’s words.

“Whoops,” Yolanda conceded, not sounding too apologetic. If she did not want a swearing child, Mother would not have allowed her to go to the army. Still, there might be some awkward glances during the evening.

“Downstairs?” The black griffoness asked instead.

“Yes. Father and Mother should be there soon.”

As they descended the narrow staircase, Yolanda noticed Yago opening and closing his beak several times, as though he was building up the courage to ask about something. She did not have to guess what it was about.

“You want to ask about the war.”

“You don’t want to talk about it.”

“It’s not like I have anything else to talk about.”

“Well, what is it like?”

“Everything’s shit, except for piss. It’s dirty, boring, and sometimes someone dies. Then other times it’s exciting and more people die.”

“Father’s greatest concern is that the war has increased the price of Prench wine. There is some rationing, but restaurants are exempt for now.”

“Of course they are,” Yolanda sighed. She did not buy into the idea that the army made griffons equal. Most of the officers were educated middle- and upper class griffons, and at the end of the day there would always be a rift between the ranks, even if it was bridged in some cases. Field officers could at least see the flesh and blood of supposedly lower griffs. She doubted her father could do that, or even cared to.

Yolanda was about to voice her opinion when her parents appeared at the top of the stairs. Her mother had her fanciest blue dress, while her father wore a three-piece suit. The coat’s long tails trailed after him.

“I’m surprised you’re wearing the dress,” he said. “I was expecting the uniform.”

“It would be a good look,” she admitted. Maybe more so for her father, who was proud to have a daughter carry on the military tradition of the family. For him the tradition had mostly meant bragging about his ancestors, so a daughter with an officer’s stars reflected well on him. “But I figured some change is good.”

They offered no further comments, instead joining their offspring in the atrium. They took their hats and stepped out into the cool evening. The occasional car drove up and down the streets, shaking on the surface of granite blocks. Fancily dressed griffons went about their business. It was clean and safe, two words that Yolanda had not used in ages.

The restaurant her father had picked was a short chariot drive away. Its facade was covered by colorless windows framed with flowing frame colored bronze, matching the greenish tint of the furniture inside. The quartet was guided to their room and handed the menus.

Yolanda made her order without much thought, picking the meal her claw happened to land on. Fish and something.

“So,” her father asked, with some humor in his voice as he twirled his mustache. “The war hero returns home. When will we see a second star on your collar?”

“When someone decides to give me one,” Yolanda answered, and took a sip of her drink, avoiding the comment about heroism. Her father did not allow that.

“According to the papers you destroyed a tank with a grenade, that should have gotten you something.”

Yolanda raised an eyebrow. She managed to make the delicate movement look aggressive. “The only tanks I’ve seen were on our side.”

“Well that’s what the papers say!”

Yolanda’s mother reached for her husband, calming his excitement. “I think there was a misunderstanding of some kind.”

“Well you surely destroyed something.”

“An armored car, but that was ages ago.”

Judging by her father’s face, he had no idea what the distinction was. Before he could ask more questions, Yolanda countered by asking what had happened at the home front. She listened with one ear to the barrage of rumors and workplace drama, smiling occasionally at the stories she understood.

The salads were brought in, but that barely paused the conversation, and neither did the main course. Here dining was an experience to be drawn out, and Yolanda fought against the instinct to gulp down the food as fast as she could.

“Also, Yolanda,” her father spoke. “I am meeting with a couple of former officers this week. I was hoping you could come with me, help me connect with them.”

“Well, I’ll see what I can do,” Yolanda gave a non-answer. Likely one of his father’s business ventures. “Just let me know what we are getting into.”

“Oh yes, just some associates I need to make a good impression on.”

Oh yes, business ventures, Yolanda thought.

The rest of the meal passed with meaningless talk, as Yolanda’s parents tried to probe her for details, and seemingly tried to connect with her. She returned the favor as well as she could, her training on manners resurfacing. But she could not shake the feeling that they were living in two different worlds. Still, she could feel her mother’s and brother’s love under their efforts, and even her father loved her in his own manner.

The family left the restaurant for the chariot waiting outside. As she was climbing into the chariot, Yolanda spotted a griffon looking out of place in the fancy neighborhood. She squinted her eyes. He seemed familiar.

“Excuse me for a moment,” she said to her parents, and before they could protest, the black griffoness was gone.

“Greendown!”

The griffon stopped, surprised to see Yolanda behind him. Greendown had also traded in his uniform for more comfortable clothing.

“Holy shit, lieutenant-” Greendown began, raising a claw for a salute. Yolanda interrupted him. “No, don’t salute me on leave. What are you up to?”

“There’s a bar nearby. Doctor’s Cellar, the best cheap place around. I’m not taking the long route to avoid the rich places.” Greendown answered, and watched as a small grin appeared on the corner of Canales’ gray beak.

“Mind if I join you, Sergeant? I feel like causing a scandal.”