Chapter Sixteen

>You curse as the sleeve of your jacket catches on yet another thorny vine
“Really Gilda, great job,” you call back as you try to free your arm from the clingy plant, “I think you found the densest concentration of thorns and brambles on the planet. Quite the accomplishment”
> “It’s your fault dweeb.” Gilda retorted from behind you as she struggled with her own vine, “Normally I can just fly over all this, but I have to guide your grounded ass.”
> Finally you free your arm and resume your slow pace forward, using your knife as a makeshift machete to clear through the thicket.
> The knife didn’t do much good. The plants were thick and flexible, simply stretching and moving under the strikes.
> The bushes rose to well above shoulder level, forming a near impenetrable barrier, forcing you to squeeze and worm your way through tiny openings.
> You had been working through this for the better part of a mile. Your clothes were covered with tiny spiked seeds and your hands stung from thousands of tiny pinpricks.
> Gilda fared no better, the barbs equally adept at working their way into feathers as cloth. Her coat was disheveled and you could see several feathers pinned to the bushes.
> Finally, you emerge from the thicket, tearing yourself free from the troublesome foliage
“At last!” you exclaim, plopping down onto the ground “Sweet, soft, non-prickly grass!”
> You yelp and jump back onto your feet as hundreds of tiny thorns embedded in your clothes simultaneously poke into your back.
> “Smooth move, dweeb.” Gilda remarks as she emerges from the brambles
“…shut up.” You reply, failing to devise a good retort. “Come on, we’ve got a lot of ground to make up.”
> You set off into the forest, Gilda following behind you with a triumphant smirk.
> As you make your way between the trees, a powerful odor hits your nostrils, causing you to stop in your tracks.
> The smell is recognized instantly, anyone would instinctively know that stench even if it was the first time they encountered it.
> The odor is base, simple, and foul. It sets off primal, deeply imbedded instincts and emotions, caution, wariness, and fear.
> It’s the smell of rotting flesh.
> The smell of death.
> Without a word, you unsling your bow and draw an arrow, looking behind you.
> Gilda’s eyes are wide and alert, her body tense. She recognizes it as well.
> You two of you creep forward, senses tuned to the slightest disturbance.
> The stench gets stronger as you move closer to the cause of the smell.
> You find the source at the bottom of a small gulley.
> It was a p0ny, with a dark blue coat and a black mane
> His neck was clearly broken, his head lying at an unnatural and awkward angle
> He had a gruesome gash wound on his chest and face, which was now infested with swarms of flies
> “Wow, sucks to be that guy,” Gilda remarked as she examined the body, “looks like a bear got to him.”
“Yeah, and not too long ago,” you reply, keeping your bow trained on the foliage around you, “I’d say about twelve hours, maybe more judging by the rot.”
> “Oh hey, I found his saddlebags”
> You look over your shoulder and see Gilda pull a pair of worn saddlebags out from a nearby bush
“Seriously? We’re robbing a dead guy?”
> “What? He doesn’t need them anymore.”
“Alright, fine.” You sigh, “Let’s just get out of here. That thing reeks and I’d rather not be around when the scavengers show up.”

> The sun was low in the sky as the two of you sat around your camp.
> Tonight’s meal was already taken care of, two hares roasted over the small cooking fire.
> “Alright, let’s see what we’ve got here.” Gilda said, tossing you one of the saddlebags and opening the other herself.
> You flip the clasp open and begin rummaging through the bag’s contents
> “First off, a pair of horseshoes…” Gilda listed, producing four small metal shoes
> “Useless.” She remarked, throwing them over her shoulder
“Trail rations,” you announce, pulling out five small wrapped bundles and placing them aside, “could be useful if we can’t hunt.”
> “Oh, score! Bits!” Gilda exclaimed, pulling out a small cloth pouch sealed off by a short cord
“Bits?” you ask, confused
> “Money.” She clarifies
“Ah.” You affirm, resuming your search.
> You grasp something smooth and heavy from the bottom of the bag. Pulling it out, you see it’s a large corked bottle, nearly full.
“Oh sweet! Wine!” you announce, presenting your find.
> “Seriously? Wine?” Gilda scoffs “I prefer something with a little more kick in it than that fruity frou-frou crap.”
“Same here, I hate wine actually.” You explain as you try to force the cork off with your thumb, “But alcohol is alcohol, and I haven’t had a drink in ages.”
> The cork comes off with a small *pop*. You wrap your lips around the opening and throw your head back in a large swig.
> You reflexively gag and sputter as the liquid hits your tongue.  Good lord it was sour!
> You bury your face in your arm, coughing and trying to rid your mouth of the foul taste.
“Oh god! This stuff is spoiled!”
> Gilda laughs at your reaction, “Oh please, it can’t be that bad. You just can’t hold down your drink.”
“Oh yeah?” you challenge, holding out the bottle, “Let’s see you do any better.”
> “Alright then,” she agrees, grabbing the bottle from your hand, “let me show you how a griffon drinks.”
> She takes a massive swig from the bottle, pointing the bottom straight up into the sky
> You see her eyes go wide as the taste hits, her body shakes from barely suppressed gag.
> To your surprise, she still manages to take several gulps before lowering the bottle, breathing heavily
> “See?” she wheezes, “No problem.”
“Give me that bottle.” You demand. You’re not going to let yourself be shown up by her.

“Okay, okay, okay…” You laugh, trying to calm yourself down, “Give me another one.”
> “Alright, alright,” Gilda giggles, trying to stifle her own laughter with her claw, “Let’s see here…”
> “Trottingham”
“Nottingham”
> “Stalliongrad”
“Stalingrad”
> “Los Pegasus”
“Seriously? Los Pegasus? That’s not even trying anymore!” you exclaim, falling onto your back in another fit of laughter.
> “I know right?” Gilda agrees, sharing in your infectious laughter, “All p0ny names are like that. They’re ridiculous!”
> You take another swig from the bottle, watching the stars spin and twirl above you. This stuff wasn’t so bad, once you got used to it.
“I wonder, *hic*, I wonder what that blue p0ny’s name was.” you stammer, “It was probably Bluey, or Blues, or something…”
> “Bluey… Bluey sounds about right” Gilda agrees, her words heavily slurred.
> You sit up, raising the nearly empty bottle into the air.
“To Bluey,” you toast, “You unfortunate bear-mauled bastard.”
> Gilda raises an imaginary glass in the air. “To Bluey” she repeats, raising her claw to her beak and looking genuinely confused when she finds no drink inside.
> You snicker as Gilda’s display, leaning against a nearby tree.
> You notice Gilda running her beak repeatedly through her wings. She’s been doing that every few minutes throughout the whole day.
“Why do you keep doing that?” you ask
> “I’m preening. Those darn thorns from earlier just won’t come out.” She answers, sounding annoyed.
“Here, I bet I can get them out.” You offer, dropping the bottle and rising to your feet.
> “What? No, I can get them out myself.” Gilda protests
“No, no, no, no” You insist, stumbling across the camp, “You’ve been working at that all day. Let me help.”
> You position yourself behind Gilda, gently grabbing her wing in your hand
> “No, really, I don’t need you help An-“
> She’s cut off as you begin running your fingers through the feathers, working to the soft down beneath the surface.
> It doesn’t take long to find the troublesome thorns. As you pluck each one free, Gilda shudders under your hands, letting out a soft moan of pleasure.
> Dang, these things must have really been bothering her.
> After a few minutes, you’ve cleared the barbs from Gilda’s left wing
> Without a word, Gilda extends her right wing out from her body. You reposition yourself and begin clearing the thorns from that as well
> As you work, you feel your eyelids grow heavy and begin to droop lower and lower. You unceremoniously drop to the ground as sleep overtakes you.

> The morning sun breaks through the canopy of leaves above you, stinging your bloodshot eyes
> OH SWEET MERCIFULL LORD YOUR HEAD
> It feels like there’s a jackhammer pounding the inside of your skull
> You groan and clench your eyes shut from the painful light.
> You try to pull your blanket over your head, but it refuses to budge, it seems like it’s caught on something
> You pull harder, desperate for something to shield your eyes with
> Wait, something doesn’t seem right here.
> Your brain fights through the haze of your hangover, trying to put the pieces together
> Oh, that’s right. You don’t have a blanket.
> Then what are you pulling on?
“Grugh… stop pulling on my wing.” Gilda says lazily from behind you
> Your mind suddenly snaps into focus
> Gilda was spooning you from behind, her wing draped over your body
> WHAT THE SHIT
> Gilda must have reached the same realization as you, screaming and quickly kicking you away
> The two of you scramble away from each other, each backing up into the trunk of a tree
“OH GOD OH GOD WHAT HAPPENED LAST NIGHT!?!” you shout
> “PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE TELL ME WE DIDN’T DO ANYTHING!” Gilda shouts back
“I DON’T KNOW! I DON’T REMEMBER!”
> “I DON’T REMEMBER EITHER! THEN HOW DO WE KNOW!?!”
“WAIT, MY PANTS ARE STILL ON! WE COULDN’T HAVE DONE ANYTHING!”
> “GOOD THINKING! SO THEN NOTHING HAPPENED!”
“RIGHT!”
> “RIGHT!”
“WHY ARE WE STILL SHOUTING?”
> “I DON’T KNOW!”
> You stare at each other, backs against the trunks and breathing heavily.
“Ok, so… um. I guess we should get moving?” you ask awkwardly
> “Yeah, moving. We should do that. Moving. Yes.” Gilda responded
> You were not looking forward to today.