Pain. There is no more pain. Or I'm just incapable of feeling it so far, in which case I should be glad. I know for sure- no, exactly what it feels like. It can feel like your skin is melting off and your organs are being slowly digested into a liquid. Or it can be pleasurable, or so I've been told. Either way, I'm not feeling any of it.
It's also dark. Something I'm strangely familiar with, considering I feel unnaturally comfortable. It's like Jello or something. Trying to move around is difficult, but sitting still is another story. I feel as if I'm being carried along on a roller coaster ride made of long spongy tentacles. They keep touching my sides. Not in a funny way, but in more of a 'I'm warming you up to do something very unnerving' kind of way.
I stare in front of myself for what seems like forever, just floating in the fetal position, unknowing of what is coming next. It's a strange feeling. You feel like you know something is going to happen, but then it doesn't. Some may call it being 'paranoid', and other may call it being 'weary' but they both seem to suffice.
And I'm not too happy, neither. And I can't feel my legs. I thought I could up until know. Funny. Wait... it seems that I don't have legs. Pity. Strange, though, considering I don't even remember having them in the first place, let alone even knowing what they look like. Or maybe it's just my sense of weariness I seem to have gained from my eternal, dark prison. Or I have amnesia, which wouldn't be very nice at all. I would really prefer if I knew what I was, who I was, or where I was. Well, no point in dwelling on it now. Back to my legs. Yes, in place of where I hoped legs would be is a long bony thing I shall call a 'shashawag', because it wags about and 'shashas'. But something compels me to think something different. My earlier memories resurfacing, perhaps? No, it's just my brain telling me that it's called a tail.
Come to think of it, what am I doing here in the first place? Am I dead? Because if this is what i's like to be dead, then being dead is dull. And bland...
"That will be three hundred rubits, sir." a market pony said casually from his stand.
It was the middle of the night. Freezing winds whistled by in short gusts, causing the trees around them to rustle. Them being the market pony and the griffon. The later of course was the one buying something; a knife to be exact. The griffon was fairly scrawny, but obviously male. Although less muscular than other griffons, he still had a rather threatening looking scar running down the right side of his face. His right eye was blinded, probably from whatever scratched him. Nevertheless, he still acted fairly wimpy around the merchant.
"W-what?! That's ridiculous." the griffon staggered. The pony rolled his eyes in frustration.
"Well, some of us have to make a living." he took another quick glance at the gilded knife on the wooden counter, "Okay, fine. Two hundred and fifty, that's my final offer."
"Alright, alright! Look, just keep this confidential. I don't want anybody to know about this. Ever." the griffon threw a bulging bag of square coins onto the counter. The pony pushed the knife forward and snatched the bag of rubits away.
"Enjoy. Now, if you'll excuse me, I don't want to freeze to death. Goodbye!" the unicorn fired up his horn and teleported away before the griffon could even mutter a 'thank you'.
"Crazy ponies..." the griffon muttered before trudging off down the snow covered path.
It wasn't before long that he happened upon a cottage. He had been walking for miles, now only wanting to plop down and rest for the remainder of the night. But as it just so happens, he wasn't the only thing there that night...
