Krever sighed, and watched as the mist of his breath rose to join the dismal clouds in the sky. The weather this far north never seemed to change, always a wall of grey doing everything in its power to cast the world in dreariness. Today though, despite the weather's best efforts the sun did manage to push through the veil, casting its light on the city below. Weak and grey though it was, Krever found it complimentary to the slush covered asphalt roads and concrete block houses of New Skynavia.
Despite the tentative promise of summer, he still found himself pulling his jacket tighter against the onslaught of icy wind, and grumbled to himself as he reached for his lighter.
"This is the last time I go without Dutchy to one of these meetings" he pulled a packet of Empire cigarettes out of his pocket; a southern brand judging by that name, and sadly the only brand he could find this far north.
"Does no good to try an open a lock without the key" he pulled out the last cigarette, and made the conscious decision to drop the box to the ground and grind into the cold slush.
"Especially if said key is always late unless you drag him along by the tail."
He light the cigarette and placed it to his beak, but found himself holding the lighter in his claw a moment longer. He felt the warmth seep down through his claws, and watched the flame as it danced and flickered, defiant against the wind that tried in vain to snuff it out. A memory surfaced in Krever's mind, of Griffinheim many years ago. Flames spreading through streets like burning fingers, roaring a battle cry as a great struggle took place in the streets. The fire burned its way through homes and livelihoods, destroying the lives and dreams of millions.
But it was almost worth it. The new world that could've risen from the ashes would have been one of unparalleled freedom and opportunity, one where those griffin's who had lost what meagre lives they had could have lived like the nobility that so exploited them. And then came the Archon. Just as the revolution reached its highest heights it was stuck down, snuffed out by the imperials and their counter-revolution. Thousands of brave griffs were slaughtered, and that snivelling coward Kermeskai chose to flee rather than fight to save his brothers in arms. After that the fate of the revolution was sealed.
Krever let the lighter go out. The cold wind still caressed him, but a stray beam of sunlight shone down as the sun began to win its war with the clouds. He felt the warmth on his aging feathers, and it helped him clear his mind as he returned to his present problem. He turned, trodding one last time on the smushed box of cigarettes, and stared down the worn red door before him. Deep set, with paint flaking off to show rust beneath, it didn't seem an appropriate face for the home of the Radical Internationalist Intervention Society.
But perhaps that was the point. They were certainly a secretive bunch after all, as Krever had found when the absence of Dutchy by his side had led to his rejection by the angry beast of an Earth Pony that guarded the door. Despite having attended meetings of this group three times prior. With the same pony guarding the entrance each time.
He strode forward, prepared to hammer through that door, and through the guard if he must, to attend this Maar forsaken meeting. If the rumours were true, this wasn't one he could afford to miss. He reached the door, taking one last draw of his cigarette to calm his nerves when an overdue voice called out from behind.
"Boreas Grover, you’re really testing the waters today! Knock on that door again and old Fist Hoof's face will be the last thing you ever see if I'm not right there with you."
Krever turned to see Dutchy strolling down the street towards him, not an ounce of haste in his step.
"Where the hell have you been!?" He growled. "They started twenty minutes ago".
"I know, but they're expecting me a little late. They had me out running some last-minute errands". He patted his satchel.
"And what about me?" Krever took another drag from his cigarette to keep his frustration in check.
"What about you?" Dutchy strode past him to the door, annoyed. "You’re not important, no more so than me or anyone else. Cogs, remember?"
"Right... cogs in the machine of change and all" But such a machine should be well oiled if it hopes to incite said change.
Dutchy looked back at him. "It makes no matter anyway. I'm here now, and a taste of that fresh Skynavian air likely did you some good. Too much time in that southern climate can’t good for you".
That much was true. Years of networking and agitation efforts in Kermeskai's discordant Republic had worn him thin. The socialist presence there was a strong one, though highly disorganised and hampered in their efforts by the antics of marauding generals and republican lackeys. But a decade of careful planning had laid the groundwork for greater cooperation between the disparate bands of hopeful freedom fighters, and now the beginnings of a true revolutionary army were on the horizon.
Dutchy rapped on the door, and the small window barely opened an inch before sliding back closed. A moment later the door swung inwards on squealing hinges to reveal Hoof Fist's gruff visage.
"Bout time" he rumbled, practically pulling Dutchy into the room. He gave Krever a suspicious glance before moving aside to let him pass.
The room beyond was cloaked in shadow. Candles burned on a large central table, casting dim light over the dozens of maps, charts, records and reports spread across it. Shadows danced across a dozen aged and weary faces. The old guard of the revolution. The communists and socialists who many years ago fought alongside the republicans, in hopes of guiding the revolution to more noble ends. Though not all of them were here, those that were had grown tired Sickleclaw’s inaction and sought to further the Socialist cause their own way.
They looked up as one when Dutchy entered, and no time was wasted as he strode to the table and pulled off his satchel. No one dared speak a word as he opened it and allowed its contents to spill out, covering several large maps of Cloudbury and what looked like Griffinheim.
It was a pile of letters, folded neatly into small envelopes, all sealed with red wax. Each letter had a symbol pressed into the wax, all slightly different, but only a fool would fail to recognize the hammer and horseshoe of Socialism present in each and every one. These letters something Krever had never seen before, and clearly held great importance judging by the change in the atmosphere. The old griffins seemed to stand a up a bit straighter, the candles danced and twirled. Outside, the sun broke through the clouds a little more, its light shining through the shutters of the rooms sole window.
"It's done" Dutchy's voice broke the silence. "It's finished". He spread the letters out across the table, and several griffins began to tear into them.
"Every contact from every cell gave the affirmative, and the timing couldn't be better. Our supply lines have gone the whole spring without detection, and my PR guy worked his magic. Our allies in the South are ready to make their move."
Krever would have raised an eyebrow at the new nickname, but his attention was captured by other concerns. Good timing? Supply lines in the south? What kind of move were they planning? Surely, they weren't referring to the communists in the Republic.
Hoof Fist moved around the room, lighting more candles as Griffin's moved to side tables previously cloaked in shadow with piles of letters in claw. Krever stood befuddled, and watched as the letters were ripped open, read, and neatly sorted into piles. The room seemed to grown livelier as they worked; one griff even opened the shutters to better see to his work, and Hoof Fist had moved onto lighting a large hearth that Krever had only just noticed.
"Dutchy, what's happening?" He asked, turning the young Griffin to face him. “I heard rumours of something big in the works, but this sounds like…”.
"We're making our move" came Dutchy’s reply, voice raised over the growing din of excited chattering and the crackling of the hearth. "It's now or never Krev. I know you said it would take years for all our southern comrades to truly trust and cooperate with each other after your work bringing them together, but we have to speed things along. Kermeaskai's talking big talk about setting things to rights in the Republic; clearing bandits, suppressing radicals, educating the people and so on. If things stabilise too much down there then we lose our chance to take the revolution to Cloudbury, or anywhere beyond these Maar damned northern wastes. Sickleclaw won’t act, but if we want to one day free the Griffin's of Herzland and even beyond, we have to strike now."
Krever was stunned speechless. The seeds of cooperation he'd sown amongst the rebel cells of the south would take years to bear fruit, yet they were staging a revolution in the Republic? Now? Yet deep down, he knew the truth of it. He knew Dutchy was right. Things were changing; the Republic was consolidating its power, preparing to rise like a phoenix from the ashes, and the resurgent influence of that wretched Archon in the far south had caused the dormant empire to shift in its slumber. Great demons were awakening across Griffonia. And they had to be ready.
He stood in silence, the machinations of revolution turning around him, basking in the heat of the roaring flames and the light of the summer sun.
