Epilogue

> You creep through the bare undergrowth, boots crunching softly on the thin layer of snow
> You keep your eyes on your prey, a small doe, while maneuvering for a clean shot
> The doe paws at the ground, digging for the first green grasses of spring
> You pull back on your bow, the muscles of your back stretching from the strain
> This bow was much larger than your old one. It was a massive longbow, nearly six feet long with a draw weight of roughly one hundred pounds
> It was overkill for prey like this, but with a few encounters with the wild boars, grizzly bears, and giant eagles that prowled Gryphonia taught you the need for such massive stopping power
> You prop up the arrow with one finger as you draw back, a simple trick you learned long ago to avoid the sound of the shaft sliding against the bow
> Locking your hand behind your jaw, you steady your aim on the deer
> You fire, the arrow shooting forth with blinding speed
> It strikes the doe in the center of the heart, passing straight through and exiting on the other side.
> The doe doesn’t even have time to react, simply falling forward into the snow
> You sling your bow over your shoulder, stepping forward to collect your kill
> You kneel down, unsheathing your knife and begin to clean the deer
> It’s dirty work, by the time you’re done, there’s large steaming pile of entrails lying on the ground and your hands are covered in blood
> You scrub your hands clean in the snow. Grabbing a cold handful from a nearby bank, you wash off the blood that spilled onto your clothes
>Your old jacket wore out years ago, along with the rest of your clothes from back on earth.
> Now you wore a simple rabbit skin vest, along with a pair of rough fur trousers. Around your waist was a short wolf skin kilt.
> You heave the carcass up onto your shoulders, beginning the long hike back uphill
> You admired the scenery as you hiked, enjoying this unique time of year
> It was that special time of early spring, the sun was strong and warm, but the last remnant s of winter stubbornly refused to leave.
> The air was filled with the scents of life returning to the world, wild flowers and grasses just beginning to push up through the thin layer of remaining snow
> The birds sing in the thick conifers, joined by the first migratory birds to return home from their southern voyage.
> You keep hiking uphill toward one the many mountains that surrounded the valley
> Signs of civilization slowly began to appear around you, the faint smell of smoke, the occasional tree stump
> You eventually started passing the few small Griffon farms. They were more like large gardens than proper farms.
> You were exceedingly grateful for their presence nonetheless. The griffon diet consisted mostly of meat, vegetables were considered an optional luxury.
> That wasn’t an option for you however, you needed greens. The farmers were always grateful for your continued patronage, waving as you passed by into town
> You soon arrive back at the village of Vhalestead, a small community nestled in the foothills of the mountain.
> The buildings seemed Scandinavian in design. The houses were built from sturdy timber, with cobblestone foundations and simple thatched roofs
> You made your way along the wide pathways between the buildings, the sharp clang of a smith’s hammer sounding in the distance
> A few griffons crossed the sky above you, heading about their daily business
> One of them dived toward you, letting out a short avian screech in greeting
> Each griffon’s call was unique. After a while, you could identify many of the griffons in town by sound alone
> You wave back as the griffon lands on the ground beside you, matching your stride
> His entire coat was a pale smoky grey. His crown feathers were tipped with a dark black, with a similar coloration around his eyes.
> His coat was covered in sawdust like always, contributing to his dusty appearances
 “Hey Espen,” you greet, “You done at the sawmill for today?”
> “Yeah, just finished.” He confirms, hungrily eyeing the deer on your back, “Thought I’d drop by to…just chat a bit…”
“Really?” you ask, suspicious, “So you didn’t fly down here because you saw I had venison and were hoping to snag a ‘free sample’?”
> “Of course not.” He denies, “But if you’re offering…”
 “Sorry Espen,” you interrupt, slapping away his reaching talon, “you’ll have to head to the market later if you want any.”
> “Who’s working the stall today?” he asks
“It’s Gilda’s turn.” You answer
> “Aw, but Gilda never gives me any samples!” he whines
“Exactly.” You reply, grinning
> He grumbles complaints under his breath as you continue on your way
> “Oh hey, did you hear there’s going to be a feast in the mead hall this Friday?” he asks, changing the subject
“No, what’s the occasion?”
> “Gjurd finally got accepted as a housecarl for the jarl of Hjaaldor” he explains
“About time, he’s been vying for that position for years.” You comment, “How did Gerda react?”
> “She took the opportunity to propose, he accepted of course.” He answers, pointing at the necklace resting against your chest, “First you and now Gjurd, at this rate I’ll be the last bachelor around here in no time.”
> Your necklace was pretty simple, a thin cord decorated with small beads and polished stones
> In the center was a large, lavender tipped feather from Gilda’s crown. It was the symbol you were a bonded pair, the closest thing Griffon’s had to marriage
> You fondly remember the night Gilda presented it, you’ll never forget what she said,
> “You’re mine dweeb, I see you with another Griffon and I’ll flay you alive.”
> Yeah, she was never much of the romantic
> “So, will you be there?” Espen asks
“Wouldn’t miss it. Just make sure someone keeps Ivan away from the mead, if he starts singing again I’ll probably go deaf.”
> You both chuckle at the memory of the last feast you attended, Ivan’s off key and bawdy singing fresh in your minds
> The two of you go your separate ways near your house, Espen taking off back into the sky
> Your house was fairly modest. The first floor had a kitchen and general lounging area, a stone fireplace built into the east wall. The large loft was converted into two bedrooms
> You walked around into the backyard, stringing the deer up on a horizontal wooden beam
> Gilda would be back soon to take today’s game to the market, which left you with a little spare time.
> You noticed the pile of firewood near the back door was a tad low. You might as well be productive while you waited.
> You gathered an armful of logs and carried them over to a nearby stump.
> Dropping them onto the ground, you picked up the nearby woodaxe
> You positioned a log atop the stump and took a step back.
> You heaved the axe over your head, bringing it down in a might chop
> The log is cut cleanly in down the center, the two halves falling to the side
> You place another log on the stump, preparing another swing when you hear a soft rustling behind you
> You look over your shoulder for the perpetrator, but see nothing.
> You smile to yourself. The game is afoot.
> You bring the axe down on the log. You faintly hear movement to your left over the sound of splitting wood.
> Good, she using the noise to cover her movements. She’s improving.
> You set up another log, raising the axe above your head. You slow your swing for just a moment, altering the timing of your strike.
> Her timing was off. You hear movement briefly behind the rain barrel near the wood pile. Of course she would be there, it was her favorite spot, but it was starting to get predictable.
> You whistle a simple tune while you gather up the kindling, feigning ignorance
> Perhaps you were hamming it up a bit, but you might as well play along
> You carry the wood over to the pile, preparing for the inevitable strike
> Sure enough, as you pass the rain barrel, something small and feathery collides with the back of your head
> You dramatically throw the wood forward, stumbling and twirling around as the miniature assailant grips your head
> You hear soft giggling behind you as you come to a stop in the center of the yard
> “I got you dad! I got you!” the tiny griffon proclaims from your shoulders, resting her head and arms atop you head
“Ha, yes you did Beata, good job.”
 > You reach up and scratch the back of her head, causing her to purr contently
> Gilda glides down into the yard, chuckling at the scene and smiling at the two of you
> She wore a necklace identical to yours, a lock of your hair in place of a feather
“So, what did you and mom do today?” you ask as Beata leaps down from her perch
> “Mom showed me how to catch fish from the river” Beata answers, beaming up at you
> Beata showed many similarities to you had Gilda. She had Gilda’s white head, along with the lavender coloration on the tips of her crown feathers. However, she lack the coloration around Gilda’s eyes.
> Her coat was a light golden brown, similar to your hair. Her eyes were also yours, a deep clear blue.
“That sounds fun.” you answer, picking the wood back up from the ground and turning to Gilda, “How’d she do?”
> “Good. She caught a few small trout within a few hours.” Gilda replies, smiling down at Beata, “She’s becoming quite the hunter.”
“Of course she is.” You affirm, dumping the kindling onto the wood pile, “She’s daddy’s little chick.”
> “Dad!” Beata whines, embarrassed, “I’m not a little chick anymore.”
“I know that.” You say, kneeling down and tussling the feathers on her head, “But you’ll always be my little chick. You were so adorable back then.”
> “I was not adorable” Beata pouts, pushing your hand away.
> “Oh yes you were!” you taunt, rising to your feet, “I remember when you were just a little ball of ruffled brown feathers, you would nest in the hood of my coat whenever I went into town.”
> “Can I go play with my friends?” Beata asks, eager to change the topic
“Of course, just be back in time for dinner. We’re having venison.”
> “Thanks Dad!” she shouts, already eagerly running off
> As Beata rounds the corner of the house, Gilda drapes her arms over your shoulders, affectionately nibbling your good ear.
> “She really is doing good.” Gilda says as you reach behind you and scratch the back of her head, “I’m proud of her.”
“So am I” you agree, “She’s going to do just fine.”
> “Her friend Ingrid invited her to an overnight party tomorrow.” Gilda continues, “She asked me if she could go.”
“I’m fine with that.” You assent
> “Good.” Gilda purrs into your ear, running her talons across your chest, “Then that means it’s just the two of us that night.”
“Looking forward to it.” You grin

> That night you lay on a thick fur rug, watching the flames dance in the fireplace
> Gilda snuggled peacefully next to you, her head resting on your shoulder as you gently stroked her soft coat
> Beata laid down a few feet to your left, sleepily batting at a ball of yarn with her claw
> The soft crackling of the fire mixed with the faint chorus of crickets outside, creating a soothing serenade
> Your mind wandered as you stared into glowing logs, pondering questions you never found answers for
> You never did find out how you arrived in this world
> You never did find a way to go back
> But as you looked at the Griffon you love, and at the beautiful daughter born of that love…
> You knew it wouldn’t matter if you ever found a way back
> Because there was no place you would rather be
> You were finally home.
THE END