Hound. 4

Griffins. Proud, arrogant, and domineering. They hail from the mountain peaks where they make their nests among the crag canyons, and for miles around they patrol their territory, marking its edges with the carcasses of bested monsters. When the season takes them they will leave their territory, and search for men. They are picky and prideful, only settling for the strongest mate they can find- knights and champions and wayfarers, anything less is but food to be ripped apart.

You have seen countless corpses of your sisters, strung up in the branches of dead trees as warnings to any outsiders that the land they walk on is that of a Griffon.

Once, you even saw the scaled body of a dragon queen, proudly splayed across the trunk of an ancient oak, her guts torn out and wings clipped. You can recall the feeling of absolute dread that crossed over you at that time. The same dread that a human feels- drowning in the ocean blue, no land for miles around- and then, a fin breaks the surface just next to them- and begins to circle…

The griffon before you is taller by a narrow margin; she is a powerfully built creature with fierce hazel eyes that shine with a sharp and determined perception. Her hands end in great talons that are only matched by those on her feet- wicked scythe like things that you know the feeling of all too well- your back still stings with the scars of one such encounter.

You hold yourself steady and firm. Those scars from that encounter are not scars that went unanswered for, for you have claws of your own and you are a Hellhound, and your heart is forged from Rage.

“Why, isn’t this a chance meeting,” The Griffon speaks with a clarion voice that seems separate from her toned and hardened figure. She speaks like a noble without possessing the weak and feeble bearing of one. “Prince Tyrian, out for an afternoon stroll are you?” She finally shifts her gaze to you, as if acknowledging you for the first time, trying to test your patience. “And you must be… the guard dog?”

You take the barb in stride, though your tail flicks back and forth, the heat inside you begins to rise, the flickers of embers in your eyes. “You are?” you ask through grit fangs. Tyrian answer this one for you, fumbling, turning his pony around with wide eyes, trying to look his station.

“Ah, um,” He swallows as the Griffon turns her gaze to him. She is wearing a dress that could only be described as provocative, showing plenty of cleavage and coming down only to just above her knees. “Madam, madam Colta,”

“My Prince,” She responds warmly- too warmly for your liking. “I hope today finds you well,”

“You as well,” Tyrian nods, He seems as if he doesn’t know where to look, the poor boy, the griffon folds her arms under her chest, subtly accentuating her breasts. “Can I be of assistance?”

“Well, I’d hate to trouble you, but I was wondering if I could perhaps chance a summons with you? There are several matters I would simply love to discuss.”

“Oh, Well, I’m sure that the royal court would be more than obliging to…”

“Oh, Tyrian, dearest, you know as well as I do that those oafs take forever to ponder even the simplest of trivialities, hence why I would ask this small favor of you in the first place,” She was laying the charm on thick, all smiles and eyelashes, her feathery wings rustling behind her like she was some giddy hatchling and not a fierce griffon greywing.

“I… I guess it wouldn’t be that harmful…” he exhales, wringing the reigns in his hands. “You can tell me, if you’d like too.”  You growl low to yourself so it would not be heard, watching this candid display of political maneuvering. The griffon is quick to chirp her concerns and requests, asking Tyrian to put in a good word to his Sister Myria, on behalf of her Troop- She was apparently a ranking Matron among the Griffons of Xion. The name rang a bell somewhere in your memory, but you didn’t know nearly enough about Noble Court Politicking to add any context to the conversation. All you managed to tell is that the birdbrain really wanted her sisters to become part of the nobility, and that the fastest way to get there was through serving under one of the noble houses- the royal family especially. Such was how the Mariner Knights of Xion made their namesake in the founding days of Xion.

“Thank you so very much, I know I can rely on you, Dear Prince-

“Okay, enough.” You snap, interposing yourself between the prince and the Griffon. “Get lost, feather-head, you’re starting to get annoying.”

The Griffon changes almost at once with your intrusion. Her bubbly personality immediately turning into something vulgar and hostile, “Oh, so you must be the source of that wretched hellion stink I cant seem to get out of my nose.” She crows, “Now what would a Mutt like you be doing at the princes side?”

“I said get lost, Griffon.”

“So, tell me, have you despoiled our dear Prince yet with your vulgar body? Or do they lock you away at night so that you don’t ruin his purity with your filth.”

“I won’t ask again, you molting whore, leave, now.”  The griffon stares back at you with her hard amber eyes. The intensity between you two is palpable. After a moment she snorts, folding her arms and grooming her feathers back down before tossing her hair and sending a winning smile and wink over to Tyrian before the click-click of her talons sounds across the cobblestones and the pony whinnies in relief.

You look back at Tyrian, who wiggles uncomfortably in the saddle, put off by your display of aggression. “T-There was no real need for that…” He mumbles. “She wasn’t going to…” He trails off.

You shrug. “She was getting too friendly.”

It is not a lie to omit part of the truth. Part of the truth being, that you simply didn’t like how she was flattering Your Prince so much.
…

It happened near the outskirt of Xion, where the forest swamplands met the great northern wall of the city. It had happened just when you were beginning to lower your guard, as the breeze carried the scent of the farming pastures just north of the kingdom. The hushed ‘Snack’ of a bow snapping back into place, followed by the hushed whistle of a bolt. You spin on your heal- Reach out, and feel the full impact of a steel crossbow bolt punching partially through your hand- the pain comes almost as an afterthought. They melt out of the shadows, cloaked in dark furs and concealing robes, yet there is no mistaking them for what they are; the insectoid lower half, black as death with the large bobbing abdomen covered in deeply shaded fuzz and chitin. Arachne, four of them.

The thudding Snack sound of three more crossbows being unloaded- the soft whisper of their payload. You can’t dodge- the Prince is behind you, but you don’t need to dodge. You swipe the first bolt out of the air, the second one hits you low in your abs, while the third sails by your head- instinctively you whip around and bite- catching the bolt in your jaws before it has the chance to reach the prince and his person. The fire erupts from your eyes as you snarl and then roar- a storm of rage threatening to over take you as you curse these bandits- these assassins.

You don’t allow them a chance to fire off another volley.

You slap the flank of the pony before anything, it whinnies in fear and takes off at once, Tyrian yelling as he hugs the beast around its neck as it gallops away, instinct and training turning it towards Xion proper. In the next second you are leaping forwards, your fangs bared and fire ripping from the corners of your eyes as you howl your insane rage, the silver of your tail glints behind you like an argent streak tracing behind your movement. You  are like savage death, bounding across the roadside and closing the distance with these damned interlopers in a mere moment that has you rearing up and smashing into the first Arachne assassin Your cursed claws rip through leather armoring and into yielding flesh, the assassin explodes into a squall of gore as you rip into the chest and out through the back, your momentum never once slowed.  Body can even hit the ground and realize its death you are already moving, already killing, already howling your wrath- that banshee wail that sounds of countless damned souls wailing up from hell your kind are so known for rips from your throat just as easily as you rip out the throat of the second would-be assassin. . They draw their blades now, curved scimitar like weapons that

The third arachne to die leaps forwards, screeching her hate, the murder of her brood sisters inciting her into such a furious gambit. You turn away her blade with the back of   your claws, and reach up to grab her jaw with your other hand- with a single yank her mandible comes away. You return it just as quickly, the jagged jaw bone rips across her neck, and you stick the spur through her eye socket.

The last assassin, you can smell the fear, the urine tracking down her chitin as you drop the current body. You hardly even notice the new crossbow bolt sticking out of your right breast, the pain is a dull throb in comparison to the roiling hate rushing through you. Smoke rolls from your opening maw, drifting on the air like a cloud of ash as the fire erupting from your eyes takes on darker- more vivid rouge like color. Your growl turns into a rumbling laugh.

Her screams echo through the forest.
…

Your work now done, you return to Xion. You leap and bound over the plains, ripping away your skirt so as to move faster, the blood running freely from your wounds. You don’t even feel the pain, your mind is entirely focused on your one and only obsession: Dear Tyrian, and the fact that he has disobeyed you.

The horse whinnies in fear as you approach. You transition from the pouncing sprint on all fours like that of a beast to the two legged gait that is familiar to Man. Tyrian, you had bid him to gallop with all due speed back to the castle the moment the Arachne struck, he would be safe there, amongst the guards and his family. Instead, you find him along the outskirts, next to a farmstead, atop his horse for all the world to see him in his royal blue garb.

The fire still fresh in your eyes and the blood carving a crimson streak down the front of your torn clothes is not your own. You paint a gruesome feature, and the fear that is clear on his face tells you as much. You do not care right now- he did not listen to you, he put himself in more danger by waiting for you. A voice in the back of your head whispers to you, that boys only want freedom when it suites them.

You don’t know where it came from. You start to shout, grabbing him off the pony, you start to berate him, start to scold the prince for endangering himself in such a way. Your words catch, the fire dies the instant you see tears. The rage building in your chest dissipates almost at once- like a flame snuffed out by a bucket of water.

As soon as the crying begins, you forget everything you were going to say, and pull him into your embrace, face buried against your chest, still bloodied claws running through his hair. He wraps his arms around you. He lets everything out, the shuddering sobs of a boy both sorry and scared, the sudden reality of the past occurrences making their weight known only now.