“Yep. Griffin.” He leans back in the chair slightly, recollecting the details of that particular adventure. It wasn’t often he got to brag about his exploits. Doing so with other knights just seemed redundant as most had similar stories, if not better ones, and most pubs had grander stories (though the truth of any tale said over ale and pickled eggs is questionable at best). “I was…I believe a year into knighthood by that point. So nineteen or there about.” He begins.
“I’d joined a small squad of knights lead by that was headed to the northern border at the behest of a Lord…Albin? Albion? Something like that. A band of orcs had made camp too close to a trade town of his, and it was disrupting business….to be frank with you, I think the dwarven traders they were ‘disrupting’ enjoyed the sport of it.” He smirks, remembering the rowdy bunch of copper miners who’d made camp with them after they’d arrived at the outpost. “Normally a job that far out of the way isn’t worth picking up, being short in both gold and glory, and I was in bad need of the former. Thankfully, the Knight who hired me was well aware of that, and had secured a tithe from the lord to pay for the expedition.”
“At any rate, between us, the traders, and the lords own men the orcs barely lasted three days before they were routed. Most of the company stayed behind for a few weeks to drink and lay whoever was available. Not being too fond of that sort of thing, I headed back south. While on my way back maybe…” he pauses, trying to remember “About half a week’s walk to the north east of Aimlenn I stopped in a small farm town. Mostly because there were the gored remains of a flock of sheep and what was left of a donkey strewn about the town.”
“When I inquired with the mayor, she informed me that a griffin with a torn wing had made itself at home somewhere near the sleepy village in the woods. Claimed its was hunting their livestock at nigh. Course, at the time I didn’t rightfully believe her. Mountains were close, but the area was decidedly farmland lacking the high ridges the beast prefers to hunt on. And pest animals, no matter how aggressive, generally don’t kill more than what they can eat. Turns out I wasn’t the first person to think that, many knights having passed over it as a hassle and most hunters in the region were either suspicious or ill-equipped to deal with the issue. As a result, I was given a very generous offer to deal with it quickly.”
“Still sure the villagers were mistaken, I happily took the job. Figured it was probably a feral pack of dogs and that the locals were just panicking about how this would affect harvest (it was late into the growing season) and getting all worked up.”
“Without much livestock left to kill, the farmers had taken to keeping the lot of them in one pen at night. I spent most of the night kneeling in ankle deep pig shit, waiting for my prey to show up. About two hours before sun up, it struck. Broke through from the tree line and broke a dead sprint straight for the pens. Damn thing gave me a heart attack as some forty three stone of feathery muscle tore moving at the speed of hate towards the livestock. I’d barely recovered by the time it leapt the fence, sinking its beak into one of the few remaining sheep. And damned if the mayor wasn’t right as rain, the things wing was mangled to all hell, feathers half rotted away and hanging from the shoulder by a twig of bone. Were it not for that sorry feature, he’d have been a right handsome specimen. ”
“I quickly cursed the creature with a spell I uh… know.” he pauses, trying to avoid an in-depth explanation. “Little curse that lets me brand a sigil on something that oozes glowing goo. Doesn’t hurt nothing, but ‘s useful if you need to track something.”
“Since I was getting paid to keep the livestock safe, it didn’t seem right to let the sheep continue to get torn asunder. So I grab my spear and give the bastard a few good jabs while he’s distracted, catching him in the shoulder. I should have just let him get tired out, ‘cause he turned on me and gored me something fierce for his troubles.” Gillian unbuttons his shirt sleeve on his good arm, rolling it up. A long jagged scare runs along the length of the forearm.
“After that, he ran off, leaving a nice easy trail of blood and goo for me to follow back to his den. I took a few minutes to get myself patched up (and apologize for loosing another sheep) before following. It was about a two hour hike into the backwoods and the sun was just barely out by the time I found its den. Cave opening was about as wide as the doors to this room, maybe a little smaller.”
“I approached the opening with my shield up, ready for him to charge out from the darkness. When I got to the mouth, I realized the buzzard was pressed up against the back wall, seething as he lay in a pool of his own blood and other fluids. I’m sure had he the energy, he’d have charged me down then and there, but it seems his age and the blow from earlier had sucked a deal of the fight out of him.”
“Given he was happy enough to let me wander right up to the cave opening without reprisal, I decided to weigh the match in my favor a little before engaging him. I head back to the trees and sharpen some stakes out of them, planting them evenly in around of the mouth of the cave. Make it harder for the big fellow to move around as freely.” He decides to omit the part where he made sure the stakes were as septic as possible, just in case he lost the fight but the griffin managed to step on one and get an infection. And Thaln not being home to the most poisonous of plants, there was only one readily available option. Bring up that sort of tactic in front of knights on a battlefield might get you a look or two, but there was some understanding. Nobles though? The disgust would be so thick you could spread it on bread, and he couldn’t rightfully blame them.
“It was about noon by the time I finally decided to engage the griff, throwing another spell at him to get his attention. The bolt struck him at a bad angle, grazing him, but it was good enough. Injured and now threatened, he burst from the cave and bears down on me, avoiding most of the stakes near the entrance and slamming head first into my shield. I could feel my bones rattle as I thrown to my knees, his momentum carrying him over and behind me. I barely manage to turn and get my spear up before he charges again, catching the tip of the blade in him before he backs off.”
“We stare each other down for a while, taking experimental pokes at anothers defenses. Then, to my surprise, as I was taking a stab at him the feathered devil snatched the spear in his beak (avoiding the blade), and rip it back from my grip. It was kind of a surreal moment, to have been disarmed by an animal, and I’m dead certain if any of my instructors had seen it I would have heard no end of it.”
“The griffin, for his part, seemed pleased with his maneuver. Or atleast I assume so as he bore down on me. Stunned and with no time to reach for my sword, I reacted on instinct and threw as hard as I could with my shield arm. We traded blows, him catching me in the shoulder and me landing a blow against his head. He rolls over me, I would guess concussed from the blow, onto one of the stakes I’d laid out, stunned and now bleeding twice over. Adrenalin and good luck let me recover first, drawing my sword and quickly thrusting it into his breast as he lay stunned. Then I backed off, leaving my weapons while the beast laid there and subcame to its wounds. By an hour later, it’d bleed out and I was walking back to town, head in hand. Got paid. Went home. Still, one of the better hunts I ever got to be a part of. Have hated to see him in his prime, wings and all.”
It wasn’t exactly the noble tale most knights would have made it out to be, Gillian knew. He’d probably have been more impressive if the griffin was bigger and was still capable of flying, but he never liked the idea of change that. He liked the battered old griffin (hell, he was PROUND of having hunted him), probably pushed towards the farmland after losing a territory battle with another male (likely how it lost its wing to), but still every inch as vicious and hearty as any other of its kind. Lying about the beast seemed insulting, and he could never bring himself to do it.
And leaving the griffin to die rarely left a good impression with crowds outside of hunters. Most wanted a triumphant victory after hours of one on one combat, not realizing the difficulty of handling an animal that big and dangerous while wounded and desperate. And even he had to admit, he'd have preferred that tale, if only so it could have minimized the poor creatures suffering at the end. But that wasn’t how the fight had gone. It was an exhilarating three minutes where the world was just him and the griffin wanting nothing more than to kill one another, then it was over, and the griffin was left to go as Mayon intended him. Eased into the unconscious arms of death, then to awake where ever the goddesses put griffins in death.
There is a pause and Gillian realizes he, perhaps, rambled on too long with his tale. “I uh..sorry. Got a little lost there. But that’s my griffin story, such as it is.”
