SV-RPG Ch 2.1: Gotta eat sometime

Mac approached the gryphon-dragon hybrid with the same amount of respect as she did any new and potentially dangerous arrival to Eagle Creek. As she leaned forward, the kit’s belly (a curious mix of feathers, scales, and fur) rippled; fearing some sort of regurgitation, Mac took a step back. The kit’s huge gold eyes widened and it mewled piteously, crouching low on the picnic table. It scratched at the wood, and then crawled on its belly towards Mac, head tilted up, beak open.

“The beast is hungry,” Ossie observed, matching Mac’s thoughts.

The kit’s cries became imperious, demanding. It reached out for Mac’s grey jacket, tiny, soft claws snagging the fabric. Mac sighed, irritation giving way to fondness. Carefully, she disengaged the talons, set the creature back down on the table, and checked her jacket for holes. Next to Mac, Ossie snorted lightly. Mac glanced at the dunalino mare, but saw that Ossie’s ears were forward, not back, as they had previously been.

Ah, well. That was a good sign. Still, the wee beast couldn’t help being born—or made, as it were. She gathered the kit in her arms, staggering slightly as she misjudged its heaviness. How the hell had it doubled in weight from egg to birth? And for that matter, she mused as she brought it over to Kanorlan, why was it fully feathered? Newly-hatched birds, from sparrows to the great eagles, were naked, pale things. Of course, she’d never met a full-blooded gryphon before—dragons were the creatures that inhabited her part of the world. They could very well give birth to fully-fledged young.

“I guess I’ll find out,” Mac murmured out loud.

Kan cocked a black-tipped blue ear in her direction. “Hm?”

“Nothing,” Mac replied distractedly. The gryphon-dragon kit wriggled in Mac’s arms, a squirming ball of feathers, fur and scales. Mac grunted and juggled the kit so that she was able to free one hand. Reaching out, she caught the open mouth of the satchel and popped the wee beast inside. Kan, all four legs braced for impact, flicked an ear, and then twisted his head around.

“Is he in there?”

The kit mewled, tiny clawed forepaws clutching at the edge of the satchel. Mac smiled and waggled a finger at him. “Stay,” she lightly ordered as he reached for her. Rising, she laid a hand on Kanorlan’s head. “How is it?”

Kanorlan’s purple eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I don’t feel a thing. I can see him sitting right there, but there’s barely any weight to him at all.”

Mac raised an eyebrow. That was the second time the huge fenwolf had assigned a sex to the kit. “Him?” she asked.

Kan blinked, and then nodded. “Oh yes, definitely male. I’d wager if you lifted his tail, you’d be able to tell immediately.”

Ossie snorted and shook her fiery head, big blue eyes rolling with amusement. Mac covered her mouth with a gloved hand to stifle her laughter at Kan’s matter-of-fact attitude. “I trust you,” she told the fenwolf earnestly. She gave the blue wolf another pat on the head and turned to go saddle Ossie.

The large draft Nordanner stood patiently as Mac retrieved her fallen saddle from the ground. Mac dusted off the pink leather and adjusted some of the twisted straps before heaving it onto Ossie’s broad back. Every now and then, Mac glanced up, keeping tabs on the dunalino mare’s body language. With the exception of her earlier outburst, Ossie remained the calm, collected, bomb-proof mare she’d proven herself to be. The only indication of her unease was the continued crackling of the flames that had replaced her mane and tail.

“They’re watching us,” the mare reported as Mac smoothed a crease in her saddle pad.

“Who?” she asked, although Mac had a good feeling who that might be.

Ossie pawed at the cobblestone with a steel-shod hoof. “The old couple. They’re afraid of the beast.” She paused, and then turned her huge head towards Mac. “I understand their fear.”

Mac patted Ossie’s neck reassuringly. “I know,” she soothed. “I know.”

Ossie’s eyes closed briefly; along her neck, the flames crackled. Red and orange and yellow streaks of fire flickered, momentarily replaced by Ossie’s typical upright white mane, with its distinctive fireflower accessories. The mare sighed and the flames returned. Mac continued to stroke her smooth, soft neck, watching as Ossie’s frame subtly shifted. Her stance grew bolder, her head lifting higher. She was no longer afraid—but determined. Whatever conversation she’d had with herself, it worked to their team’s advantage.

Not wanting to press the mare further, Mac finished tacking Ossie up—fitting her with bridle and breastband. With the fearful eyes of the McAulfys watching them, Mac quickly stuffed her meals into an extra set of saddlebags. All that was left were the shards of the kit’s egg. Mac glanced at the house, then at the pieces of shell. Who knew if they would be useful down the road? Grabbing the blanket she’d snatched from the barn, Mac shoved the fragments into a loose bundle and tucked them into an empty saddlebag. Reaching into her jacket pocket, she drew forth two gold crowns and dropped them on the table—more than enough compensation for their stay, plus meals, and the blanket. It was probably more than the old couple had ever seen at once.

The summer sun beat down on their little quartet; Mac rolled her shoulders, suddenly uncomfortable. Gods, when did it get so bloody hot? She unbuttoned her jacket, pulled off her gloves, and rolled the whole thing up to stuff behind her when she got into the saddle.

In his satchel, the kit wriggled, his plaintive cries of hunger increasing in volume. Kan’s upright ears flattened and his lip curled at the piercing sound.

“All right,” Mac announced, swinging into the saddle. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

They kept to the path that had the best chance of leading them to the mountains. While Mac didn’t relish the thought of adding a week or more to their travel time, she simply didn’t feel right taking the kit back to Eagle Creek. He belonged with his own kind—and despite being half dragon, there was no way in hell she’d walk into a dragoness’ den to hand him over. Hopefully gryphons were more accommodating—and less bloodthirsty.

The kit’s cries had abated as they traveled, his golden eyes fixated on the passing scenery. Kanorlan trotted on Ossie’s left side, so the kit could see the land as they moved, without being blocked by Ossie’s palomino dun bulk.

Mac’s thoughts meandered even as her eyes scanned the terrain. Nothing but forest on either side of the dirt path. Next to them, the kit squeaked happily at something he saw in the brush. Ossie’s left ear flicked sideways, then returned to its forward position. Nothing of note.

I can’t keep calling him “the kit”, Mac mused. A bead of sweat trickled down her nose and she wiped at it with the back of her hand. But if you give him a name, you’ll get attached, the reasonable, logical part of her countered.

Mac sighed and ran a hand through her frizzled red hair. It wasn’t as if she could turn around and go home. They were already committed to this path. Besides, the mountains weren’t that far away. If she gave the kit a name, it would only for a little while. His people would surely give him something more … gryphonic.

In the meantime … what about Bob?

No. Mac smiled and shook her head at her own obtuseness. Rex? Cormack? Lir?

“Bran,” Ossie said with a short bob of her head.

Mac blinked. “Was I speaking out loud?”

The skin across Ossie’s withers shivered in an equine shrug. “Sort of.”

Mac waited, but no other explanation was forthcoming. She opened her mouth to press the mare further, but decided against it. Some things defied explanation—and when that happened, it boiled down to magic. And she accepted magic as a reasonable alternative. “I like Bran.”

Ossie’s head turned slightly to her left, where Kan trotted tirelessly. “Bran it is, then,” the huge mare pronounced. Kan let loose a soft, wolfish huff of agreement.

A few minutes later, Kan slowed to a halt, his black-tipped ears rigid as he stared into the forest. Bran, the gryphon kit, grew silent, age-old instinct attuned to the hunt.

“Take him,” Kan whispered.

Mac slid off Ossie’s back and hurriedly untied the makeshift harness with Bran’s satchel from around Kan’s body. As she lifted the satchel, she marveled at how it was indeed impossibly light. Bran peeped and twisted about, his foreclaws reaching out for her collar. Mac let him and turned to watch as Kan melted into the forest, his dark blue fur blending in with the dappled atmosphere.

Behind Mac, Ossie shuffled, her bound tail slapping at her haunches. The mare’s ears rotated slowly, listening to the sounds of the forest.

Bran mewled, nudging Mac’s jaw with his sharp black beak. Absently, she stroked his mottled head, mouth stretching into a smile as she reveled in how soft those feathers were. She, too, watched the forest—the part where Kan had disappeared.

Somewhere, deep in the woods, a faint scream echoed. Bran’s tiny feathered ears perked as Kanorlan came loping back through the underbrush, the limp form of a fat, grey rabbit hanging from his jaws. The male fenwolf stepped over a large root and dropped his kill at Mac’s feet. Bran leaned down, the soft claws of his talons scrabbling at Mac’s unprotected forearms. Biting back a yelp as two thin red lines appeared on her arms, Mac leaned down and released the gryphon-dragon hybrid.

Bran practically squealed with delight as he pounced on the carcass, his tiny predator’s beak ripping into fur and flesh with gusto. Mac smiled and leaned against Ossie’s side, watching the wee beast eat. Kan sat on his haunches, tongue lolling, well-pleased with his efforts.

Within minutes, the rabbit was a pile of small bones and bits of fur. Bran plopped heavily onto his haunches and burped. Mac smiled and reached for the satchel. But as she approached the kit, Bran became alert, opened his beak, and mewled.

“Oh, dear,” she sighed.

Kanorlan chuckled wolfishly. “I’ll get another.” And with a bound, he was off into the woods.