The griffin's mane of feathers was long, bushy and exquisite, red and black against a background of an endless sea of stale green and blue. The king of beasts lifted it's proud head, it's long beak dripping acidic saliva that sizzled as it hit the dirt ground. It swiveled it's head, shaking the mites from its feathers, eyeing its rocky surroundings with a baleful glee. It rose, kicking up dirt and bones, and it's muscled forearms unfurled for a moment, showing it's wide, fearsome sharp wings before it stopped and moved to protect the eggs in it's large and heavy nest. Its talons, as hard as they were sharp, tickled as if it was preparing for something unexpected. It was cautious. It had every right to be cautious. Would it go down with a fight, or as easily as Arsaces hoped it would. He would rather return back to camp with a full retinue, than one half injured and mangled.

At 15, Arsaces Andhvarid was on the precipice of becoming a man. Tall and with broad shoulders, Arsaces cut a formidable figure, even if his arms and feet were still awkwardly large. His eyes were sharp and keen, his nose strong and long, his chin jutting outwards with thin lips almost always worn as a smile. This time though, he wasn't smiling.

The young man turned to his cohorts beside him, peeking across the rocky field to the other hunters who were enveloping the beast atop it's plateau. Armed with guns, swords, knives, bows, crossbows and blessed with the holy runes of his Holy Divinity, the lonely God Urava, these hunters were amongst the best that Arsaces could have brought. Many were wizened veterans, and many more bore scars from prior hunting sessions against griffins. They were majestic beasts, taller than a man, wider than a Dahae Horse, and were near impossible to kill without injury. But there was always a chance. Griffins were capricious animals. Like Kings, they were prideful, stubborn, and ultimately, singular. Many would live solitary existences in a small pack, whereupon their children would leave upon maturity. Even then, they sometimes didn't even do that. It was common for male griffins to simply rape a female one and leave her to raise his children. This female seemed like one of the sort. 3 eggs seemed to hide beneath her fearsome bulk. The young man licked his lips nervously, unsure of what to do. He was the youngest and most inexperienced one here, but in the end, the decision would come down to him. He was the leader of the expedition, a prince of the royal blood, a Vishpuran of the great Anhvarid lineage that had ruled for over 600 years. By now his little brother would have been born, and he would require a griffin egg to be gifted to as his childhood partner, as all men of the Andhvarid blood held. Arsaces could not fail here, and he tightened the grip on his heavy crossbow, fingering it's trigger. He was nervous. He could not fail here.

"Relax, your Highness." The old man by his side muttered. Without moving, Arsaces already knew that it was his old tutor, the bulky, stocky Spahbed Bahram Chopin, a man over 4 times his age with a  curly beard that reached to his chest. "You are the leader here. Remember your goal, remain calm. The men are in order and await your command. You cannot let them down, you cannot let your family down."

Arsaces turned to the older man, taking a deep breath in, then releasing it. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing escaped him. The Spahbed gave a nod. He unlocked the pouch to his side, fishing out a flask of wine. Arsaces glanced down at it, then back to his tutor with a raised eyebrow. The general shrugged, taking a swig. "It helps the courage."

The prince's face turned to a grimace. "My father would beat me if he saw me drinking that"

"Your father was a heavier drinker than you ever were at your age. Believe me, it was my fault too partially." Bahram gave a short laugh, reminiscing better times. Apparently the old Spahbed had once been a very famous lecher, according to rumours, but why anyone would want anything with the Bahram Gur, the Boar, evaded the Vishpuran. "He just worries that you'll end up like him,."

The young Vishpuran glanced at his tutor for a second. That sounded like his father. Blame the son for the same habits they had. He sighed, despairing over ever thinking that the old man was a good role model, and took the gift, hesitating for a moment before drinking it down in its entirety. The hot, sweet, pungent wine burned his throat with every gulp, overwhelming his taste buds and his mind before he finally pushed it back to his tutor. His fortitude rose, and he gave a small, cocky smile, a mask to boost the confidence of his men, and hopefully himself.

He lifted his hand, and ignoring the voice in the back of his head that spoke of caution and cowardice, brought it down. And a dozen alkali tipped arrows fired.