Gryphus

October
Eastern Griffon Kingdom
Wilderness, Contested Territory

Time passed slowly as the first battalion waited in reserve.

The griffons had found multiple ways to combat boredom, of which Captain Telesca preferred training, mainly because it kept her soldiers from doing anything exceptionally stupid. She trusted her platoon leaders to deal with the regular stupidity, which was why she was able to take a moment for a cigarette.

Smoking quietly outside the command tent, she observed the bivouac area.

Arranged in a circle, with each platoon given its own sector to defend, and her tent in the middle, the camp resembled a massive target if one were able to see it from above. She looked at the ravaged hill and shook her head in dismay. That the squad would set up somewhere with no concealment was not a good sign of their competence, but she would have preferred for them to live and learn.

About once a day, the Paramilitary harassed the frontline, a little over two kilometers away, with their mortars, resulting in a casualty every now and then. Even at the rear, they were far from safety, as the heavy guns kept firing at their own pace. The only road was visible from the air, running perpendicular to the frontline. It was their only lifeline, and so vulnerable. Almost every day someone was killed on the road.

Her company had been badly understrength ever since its first battle. A long period of peace had left the army small. And now an enemy that was, as much as she hated to admit it, their equal, had inflicted casualties that the influx of new recruits and reservists would not immediately replace. Especially not if she couldn’t make them survive long enough to learn the ropes.

So lost in her thoughts was Telesca, that she didn’t notice the shuffling bushes next to her.

The gleam of metal alerted her that she was not alone. Telesca watched with bemusement as a green helmet with a distinct central ridge emerged from the undergrowth, followed by a brown head.

“Good morning, Private,” the Captain greeted private Wingerni. “Not getting too wet, I hope?”

The private blinked, looking up at the captain with his green eyes glowing with mirth.

“Good morning, Ma’am,” he replied politely. “Just completely soaked.”

It was not a lie, Telesca thought. His uniform had visibly darkened and was covered with bits of moss and wet sand.

“Well, a little misery is good for the soul. We are infantry, not gunners,” she said out loud. Further away, she saw Talonico move from tree to tree, talking to his squad members.

“Firing positions?” she asked, recognizing the song and dance she had gone through thousands of times.

“Yes.”

“Very good, you can never train that enough.”

It was something that had been introduced during her last year in the Cadet School. She could remember the derision of some older officers, whose idea of war was two lines of infantry firing at each other, with no regard to cover or concealment. There was a reason most of them were out of the military by now.

“Uh, Ma’am?”

“Hm?” Usually, any questions would be directed at the immediate superior, but she was there, so she might as well answer.

“If I’m going to have sentry duty in a cold rain, I’d like to keep as warm as possible. So does the army have anything waterproof?”

“The towels,” Telesca offered without hesitation, before returning to her cigarette.

October
Western Griffon Kingdom
Millbrook, south of Gryphus, Army Group South

Griffons could make delicious food from their limited crops.

Or maybe, Amanda thought, she liked it so much because it was her first touch with real food. Back when she had belonged to the family of farmers, she had been forced to graze her food, and when lucky, was allowed to eat whatever they could not.

Still, that made the potato-carrot soup one of the best things she had eaten in her life.

Miss Stela watched her with some amusement from the other side of the small table. Amanda looked up, seeing the teacher with a pleasant smile on her face. Abashed, she realized she had forgotten her manners, and put down the bowl.

“It’s nice that you appreciate my cooking,” Stela remarked, before taking a spoonful of soup. A lone, half-burned candle by the window illuminated them in its warm, fragile glow. This far in the countryside there was no electricity.

“Well, it is good,” Amana replied, before returning to her food. As the South had freed more and more bovines from the slaughterhouses and farms, the question of what to do with them had risen. She had found a home with Stela, who, like many others had volunteered to house the bovines. Still, it was not enough. According to Stela, there were not enough volunteers, and any temporary camps would look suspicious at best. At worst, her rescuers would shoot themselves in the paw by doing so. Many sought their fortune elsewhere, but she had chosen to remain.

As Amanda ate, her mind wandered to those who had rescued her. She had no idea what had happened to them since their first meeting. But as the cogs in her mind turned, a familiar name started to surface.

“Say, miss?” she asked. “The chick that played in the airplane, Greta. Isn’t her last name Silverbeak?”

Stela lowered her spoon, raising an eyebrow quizzically. “Yes, it is. Why?”

“And is someone in her family in the army?”

“Yes, her father is a lieutenant.”

Amanda leaped up in excitement. “I know him! He was among those that found me!”

“There are many Silverbeaks, so you might have seen a different one. Was he completely gray, and full of himself?”

Amanda giggled. “Yes.”

Then, realizing she had found a way to contact those who had saved her, Amanda made a beeline for the door. “I have to go see them. See if I can send write to them or-”

“Amanda, wait.” Stela’s voice was stern but calm as if she was talking to a student that had done something foolish. “I don’t think they will like it if you interrupt their dinner. And, well, can you write well enough to send a letter?”

“Right,” Amanda mumbled, flushing in shame. She made her way back to the table. “Miss, I am sorry. I got too excited.”

Stela waited for her to finish her apology. Interrupting would have been rude, and she didn't want that. Once Amanda was done, she gently reached across the table, resting her claw on the cow’s shoulder. Surprising herself, Amanda found the touch pleasant and motherly.

“That is quite alright. You don’t have to apologize. Now, tomorrow we can go and confirm you have the right griffon. And If you want, I can help you write your message.”

Amanda smiled. “Thank you.”

October
Eastern Griffon Kingdom
Wilderness, Contested Territory

Talone left the camp, acting as if nothing was amiss.

The griffoness had a peculiar coloration of brown and black stripes, and her black beak was straight and narrow, a rarity among griffons. She hummed a quiet tune as she went, absently scanning the forest. It was more out of an ingrained habit than any actual concern, as her lazily slung rifle demonstrated.

A few steps behind her was Milan. She was outwardly calm, but a childish part deep inside her was giddy at the thought of some mischievous rule-breaking. Milan’s body was tawny in color, and her head brown, with the exception of red feathers under her dark eyes.

“So,” Milan asked, interrupting the older griffon’s thoughts. “Where exactly are we going? You said we are going to find food.”

“I did, yes,” Talone answered, ducking under a branch, and then hopping over a stream. “The field kitchen has to throw away any food that is not eaten, right?”

“If you say so. The closest I came to them was when I was peeling potatoes.”

Talone looked around, ensuring there was no one who could see them. So far they could have said they had been heading for the stream to wash. But not anymore. Now they had to be more careful. Once Milan hopped over the stream, Talone continued her explanation.

“Rear line troops are often pretty easy to bribe. We had fish yesterday, and they catch it in such numbers that there will always be too much. Anything that went unused is going to be dumped. We are going to get some of that.”

“And they can’t just use more fish than normally?”

“No. Someone with too much time came up with these ‘calories’, and everything must be measured correctly.”

Milan nodded along. That sounded like the military. Trying to impose order and control into everything, even when it made little sense. Now she understood why they had taken their mess tins.

“So, is that why I have those chevrons with me?”

A month ago, before Talonico had returned from the hospital, the squad had encountered a group of Paramilitary while on a patrol. She had killed three of them, including a corporal, and had taken his brass insignia with her.

“Precisely. I have one silver star with me, but those chevrons are more valuable. You don’t see many these days, since we use cloth now.”

“You used one star for coffee,” Milan said. “So now I want to know where you got that flour from.”

“You know that farm we passed, with the sweet farmer?”

“Yes. How did you pay him?”

Talone looked back, flashing Milan a knowing grin, swaying her tail from side to side.

“Damn,” Milan laughed as she realized Talone’s meaning. “Did you woo him with your personality?”

“Pfft! Of course not,” was Talone’s answer.

Shortly afterward, they entered a small clearing, where the battalion disposed of its waste. Clearing was a generous word, as it was merely a slightly less wooded area, full of tall, withers-height grass.

“Evening lass, I figured you’d be here.”

Standing next to a carriage filled with empty bins was a tall griffon, without a rifle and with only a cap on his head.

“Want your fill before I dump the rest of this away?”

“Yes,” Talone answered. “Two tins of fish.”

“Right this way. How are you gonna pay?”

Ready, Milan pulled out the brass chevron from her pocket and handed it over. The griffon looked at it and laughed. “Well damn, I haven’t seen these before. But say, if you ever get a major’s star, I’ll arrange you a three-course meal.”

“I’ll remember that,” Milan muttered. The cook opened a large steel can, and scooped out enough small fish to fill their tins. One he took for himself, swallowing it whole. Then he picked up the can and dumped the rest into a large hole in the ground.

As they turned to leave, Milan thanked the griffon, who merely waved her aside.

“I’m just glad to see less going to waste. I remember a damn famine, and I don’t want to see people disrespecting food like that.”

Their journey back to the company passed in silence. Both dumped their faces in the ditch, making it look like they had just been gone for a wash. A password called from a distance ensured that the sentry did not bother them.

It took some maneuvering to ensure no one came close enough to smell their bounty, but the two reached their tent without incident. Spotting their approach, sergeant Greendown pointedly looked away, as did Talonico.

If they did not see any rule-breaking, they did not have to interfere.

The tent stove was already hot. It did not take long before the section streamed in one by one. Flour and water became simple bread, and the fish were eaten whole. It was a rudimentary meal, but filling.

As Talone ate, she watched Wingerni and Bluecrest squabble about something or other, as they tended to do. Greendown and Talonico discussed the coming day, planning who would carry what.

Talone took another bite of bread, savoring the taste. Tomorrow, the company would march to battle. She did not fear death nor battle, but something gnawed in her stomach. Long ago she had talked with captain Telesca.

“Private, tell me, will you ever stop hating the Paramilitary?” The Captain had asked one day, seemingly out of nowhere, although Talone suspected she had observed her for quite some time.

“Maybe once they are all dead, or me,” she had replied nonchalantly while trying to figure out where the conversation was going. The Captain had seemed surprised by her answer.

“I doubt you can kill them all. Would you be willing to die just to let go?”

“Why not? I saw plenty of death before the war. As long as someone’s with me, I’m not afraid.”