Gryphon Guild: The Mission
Day Four

WEATHER WATCH

They knew not day, night or evening; only eternal smoke, rolling and snapping with the crackle of lurid green lightning; of thunderous explosions to deafen the mortal ear so close. The opaque bubble that covered the entire end of the stone ramp held only the shells of its occupants. There beat living hearts, worked delicate systems -- but the minds, oh, the minds! those journeyed far above where conventional wings would be hard-pressed to achieve.

High and away, far above the thick carpet of stormclouds, danced the ethereal, wispy forms of the bodies that were locked below. To the naked eye, more so one with exceptional sight, it would appear to be naught but an extra bolt of light playing tag with its electric brethren. But to those with true Sight, an amorphous, gryphoniclike form; pressing further, the mage-gifted would see the spectral as if it were but a shining mirror of the trueself -- for this was the trueself.

From the right, a pair lifted energies untouchable in diamond talons, severed red chords of fury with sharp claws. It spluttered, bucked, fought tooth and nail to retain its dominance over all. Bites of shining beaks, whips of pure mindpower -- blazing as the bastard child of foreign tragedy shone in their eyes. Maddening red, pure fire from the heart of a volcano. But these held not the destructive power that their foe did; overwhelming desire and self-sacrificing wishes, this is what fueled the flames in the orbs of the ethereal.

What happened to the inner form happened to the outer, with less visible trauma. If an outsider could peer through the opaqueness of the protective bubble, every now and then they would see a burst of light and smoke waft towards the top of the shield. Small tufts of this billowy greyness curled upwards to float through the skin. Through the double-nature of the shield -- to keep out and let what was inside out -- saved the Watch from asphyxiation; even with this ventilation the air inside was quite singed and poisonous to one breathing normally. Protected by their trancelike state, the Watch was spared this fate, but when they awoke . . . that was another matter entirely. The body was not reacting as it normally should, working only to keep the brain alive.

**Hold that line!** the spectre of Felio "bellowed." Keo, glistening ethereal red and black, sparkling to Othersight eyes, Sent affirmation.

With a swoop that would have turned any falcon or falconiform green with envy, the lupogryphoness stooped. The roar of the storm's rage echoed as huge claps of thunder. Needlesharp psychic claws tore the errant line from its chosen bed and hauled it upwards, to be realigned. It was necessary, this rearrangement, for if the energy lines were not taken from each other, the storm would not quit until it ran out of nourishment, and with something this size, that would be for a very long time. Once broken, the lines were sent off to harmless white clouds, to live out their days until enough gathered for a normal thunderstorm.

Once caught, the next line was flung up to Aurora, onyx and gleaming. Catch, ball, disperse -- that was her regimen. Lurid green lightning exploded off to her far left, reacting to the nearness of its brethren. **Shit!** she snapped, howling her frustration and threw up spectral hands in agony. Back on the ground, there was a puff and black smoke arose from equally-black plumage.

Without bonds to hold them back, the electricity broke free, racing down to be absorbed back into the collective. In reality, a massive shudder enveloped the land; lightning flashed and struck with renewed fury and callousness.

**Get them back on track!** Felio positively screamed. A huge green flash interrupted her capture process, exploding with cruel accuracy, sending her spectral form reeling head over scut. Bowled over backwards, through cloud pods and cold, netherworld-esque air. A silver lifeline was shot with deadly calm towards her spinning form; if the gryphoness spun too far away from her corporeal body, she wouldn't be able to get back into it safely. Felio's spark jumped out of its own accord, snapping out with the strength of a striking cobra; in the flash of an instant, the two met.

In that pure, unadulterated state, Felio and Aura's souls touched. For a brief, color-spectacular moment, they were closer than any other creature alive.

On the other end, the pulse of jet that was Aurora heaved back, digging her ethereal claws into energy pools, gaining purchase that she wouldn't have had otherwise on a peaceful cloud.

Reality snapped back into motion; Felio jerked back once, then as a yo-yo does, came rolling forward. And, as a yo-yo is wont, she was wrapped up in some of Aura's lifeforce, coiled about her body, black on shiny silver-tinted brown. Black spectre met silver-brown in a cascade of shockingly-bright lightning. The storm raged all about them as the two gryphonesses sought to untangle their essences; this, too, was delicate in nature. As much as they wanted to jump back to work, they had to go about things carefully, so as not to leave a part of their souls with each other, forever tied in a way neither of them were ready for, or wanted at this point in time. Mere breaths to mortals, it was eternity before they flowed back to the correct shades.

Without much speech, they resumed lost tasks. Deep in the root of their souls, they were all the better for the collision.

Darkflame and Ursula's world was one of eternal now. Energies passed back and forth between them in a repeating pattern, one with no end in sight. Separate, yet together, they sat in a pose that would have been sheer torment after mere moments: forelegs directly in front of hind paws, tail straight out behind, back leveled, head arched, wings clamped. On the outside, their bodies appeared quite calm, but if you chanced a look in their eyes, so flowed the storm . . .

EXCAVATION

Orlas was in his prime -- a fully-grown, 35ft male Northern furred dragon. His black mane stuck up on his neck in stiff bristles, save for his forelock and two braids on either side of this withers. He had replaced Tathramakan and Aeris' previous partner, Sulinkartharis, who was residing in triage with a concussion. (It was never a good idea to celebrate a discovery by pinging your head against a brace of marble slabs.) A quiet male, Orlas was more than willing to fill in, not exactly savvy in the ways of plastering; he got more in his fur and on everyone else than on the walls. Polite, tolerant Guilders suggested that he apply for excavation, and so he was assigned here, now securing the twelfth-level dorms -- those occupied by the Guild's smaller members. Here the ceilings were still as high, but the rooms were more compact, as to tailor to their inhabitants.

Tath was assisting Aeris in his harness -- a daily practice they'd fallen into -- when a familiar sound accosted their ears. Orlas looked up from his planner and his mouth dropped to reveal all his teeth and a lolling tongue. One must admit, a two-headed mecha is disconcerting the first few times he's observed. Neither the Auroragryphoness, nor the merc paid him any heed; Orlas wondered if they actually noticed he was standing there, gryphonic head aimed directly at him, while the draconic seemed curled inwards.

"Greetings," the double voice announced cheerily. "I am Arkhris-Omega. I have offered my services in searching for Guild Leader Tserisa."

Aeris had the thoughtfulness to tap Orlas in the ribs with a claw. That jolted him. "Oh, yes, I remember now." He rifled through his papers frantically.

Tath chuckled, ruffling her tri-colored wings as she settled her own harness. She pointed to an archway workers had already built for them. "We're going to start in there this morning. Crew says a ton of rubble still in the hall, so we have to cart it out as well."

Xolaris' head nodded. "You'll be going first, then me, then Aeris," Tath continued. She waved a taloned hand. "That's so you can do whatever it is you do to find the Guild Leader."

For the first time, the Arkhon head moved; in sync, the Xolaris head folded back into the chest. "I am capable of producing the most sophisticated form of visual imaging possible. From inferred, to sonar -- all along the spectrum. If the Guild Leader is within this mountain, I will find her."

It was somewhat of a boastful statement, however Arkhris was their only hope, and seeing as he wasn't technically alive, such things were overlooked.

Orlas began to dole out the line. "Let's get going." Aeris and Tath looked at each other and grinned.

They finally emerged, rock dust clinging to every feather.

"You ladies taking up a collection or something?" Aryante asked with a mischievous grin as he rolled up the line.

"Of what?" Caly wanted to know, not quite paying attention as she pealed off her harness. A wet sucking sound accompanied the removal. Slapping the powder from the leather, the tigergryphoness hung it over a nearby sawhorse. Diana did the same and made a motion towards her pad.

The elven warrior only chuckled and held up the collar of his tunic over his aquiline nose. Muse didn't even give his partner the satisfaction of a long-suffering glare. He merely marked the hall as "unoccupied/safe" and passed it off to a messenger newbie. "Ladies," the scout told them, "go wash up and take a break. The elf and I can finish up here." He studied their small clock. "Be back in an hour and a half -- no more than two."

"Sure thing big brother!" Diana agreed, rising up from her half-crouch. With that, she and Caly scampered off to bathe.

About thirty minutes later -- and much cleaner -- the two females bounded into the cafe. Since none of their friends were around, they chose to sit together while Tagia and Nightsinger resupplied themselves. It might have been quicker to go to one of the other stations, but Tagia always snuck something extra in for excavation, especially if they were friends.

Finally, Nightsinger hung the OPEN sign and dragoness and gryphoness jumped at the chance to be first in line. Tagia, amused as always, chortled when they sluiced up and presented their workcards.

Nightsinger laughed as well when the Lupodracan told him who it was. "Muse and Aryante working them too hard, is that it? Small wonder they look so thin!"

"Toughest slave driver around." Diana loved these little ploys and jumped at the chance to get herself involved at every opportunity. Caly, however, thought herself a bit above such things and casually nibbled at her meal while those three jabbered on about the Glacial and elf's habits.

Tagia's peal of laughter resounded and Caly perked her ears in time to hear her to say: ". . . but you go and eat, Diana-dear. If I know that old stick, he'll want you back soon."

The tigergryphoness had to chuckle at that. Guilders called Muse various things -- all with good intentions and in good humor -- but that was the first time she'd ever heard him referred to as a stick!

Getting settled at their table once more, they began to eat, conversation lacking to their chagrin. Popping a piece of venison into her mouth, Caly reflected on her currant position. Last year, she'd volunteered for the mission to the City of Masks; at that time, it was the most dangerous -- and courageous -- thing she'd done. Now, it seemed her exultation over their success was somewhat paltry in importance. Sure, she thought, sipping her tea, it was a monumental task, but we weren't really saving anybody. True, we could've probably defended the Guild without having to go through all that trouble. Munching with half a heart, Caly recalled what her duty exactly was in the Wing she'd been assigned to. Messenger. It was an all right job, she guessed, not big on action -- unless you counted that fight with the Darkhounds and their huge beasts. Even then, she'd been restricted to a tree and made lookout.

But I have a purpose now! No more lounging on my ass and calling the plays as I see 'em. I'm actually working and -- A little shiver ran through her in wonder -- ENJOYING it. Hell, the hours suck, I'm cramped and dirty almost all the time, but I've saved people. Saved them. Kaal's alive, so's Likeshine, that attests to something, doesn't it?

"Uh?"

Caly started sharply. Across the table, Diana was giving her a curious glance. "Uhm, you've got blood on your feathers, Caly. Thought you'd like to know." Calypte blinked and rolled her eyes at her white breast feathers, dripping almost pink. It really didn't bother her, but she used a towel to wipe it off all the same.

The red dragoness crossed her forearms in front of her small wiry body. "You sure looked deep in thought there," she observed. "What were you thinking?"

"Hrr? Oh, nothing really. Just that I've never felt so motivated in my life."

Diana nodded. "I know. Everything that I've accomplished before's kinda dull now."

Her partner pointed an exultant claw. "Exactly." A smile split Diana's draconic features; small-muzzled dragons always had an easier time conveying emotion over their longer cousins.

Sudden commotion broke out in the hall. There was a thunder of paws, claws and hooves on stone as a variable tidal wave of mythics swept on by. Chairs and mats were scraped back as people surged to their feet in surprise. As one, they crowded the cafe entrance, almost spilling themselves into the path of their fellows. Stretcher-bearers toddled along at a fast clip, barely visible in the miasma of living things. There were five teams of them, each toting a shrouded bundle; one of the bundles moaned and vomited over the side. An attendant swooped down on the unfortunate mess and cleaned it up, disposing of the soiled linen into a bag she carried.

Muttering various oaths of disgust, most of the crowd drew away. This gave Diana and Calypte a chance to see what was going on. As their fellows traipsed back to their forlorn meals, they abandoned theirs and sprinted off after the mainly-gryphonic medical wave. Down the hallway, around the bend, they arrived at the main entrance to the Common Room/triage. A clan gryphon healer blocked their way as they tried to wiggle in with the group. "Get back," he ordered in a tone that usually brooked no nonsense. "We have five extremely sick people in here." Before either of them could set up a protest, someone inside called the gryphon's name. He turned around and darted in, drawing a curtain across the lower half of the doorway. Seizing the opportunity, Caly boosted the lighter dragoness up on her shoulders, rising onto her hindquarters so that Diana's sinuous maroon-striped neck arced over the curtain rod.

When the clan gryphon came back to stand watch, they were already gone, pelting back to the cafe. Into the noisy room they burst, faces ashen.

"It's the Watch!" Diana spluttered.

RESCUE TWO

The tight blue canvas had seen better days. Unfortunately, those "better" days had been spent used as a cover for the village compost pile. At this point in time, Blaze neither cared, nor frankly, didn't even acknowledge the canvas' lowly position on the village's radar.

The intense heat, trapped by so many sunny days, was slowly drying out his slick fur and feathers; he wasn't sure if he had skin anymore, so fine was the line between them all. Next to him, Aakora sneezed violently; her inhalation drew more of the humid composting air into her waterlogged lungs. She retched, dry-heaving into the muddied soil, strands of spittle and phlegm splattering onto the ground, mixing with swirling eddies of mud.

"It will be all right," Blaze murmured as he shifted to keep his bigger frame supporting the canvas.

Aakora shuffled wrinkled and dirty forefeet, mentally wailing at the ruined state of her beloved spotted plumage. Her conscious railed against vanity, saying that she was better off than some others who might have been caught unawares when the meteor-induced storm hit. Khirsah, Nauta and Luna Star were safe inside one of the town houses, but she and the orange gryph had been out on a delivery; this stinky, smelly swillhole was essentially a godsend.

"I'm scared, Blaze," she whispered, ears flat in defeat. She, brave and sarcastic, reduced to the emotional core that was her true self, something that the shell she'd built around her was supposed to contain. Aakora's world was crumbling to the tune of demonic lightning, volatile thunder and rampaging torrents of rain. Tears soon joined the cesspool of mud, spit and phlegm milling about their ankles. "I'm so scared!" Her legs trembled, threatened to drop her into the muck. The gryphoness' gorge rose at the very thought.

Blaze sensed it, was there. "Por favor," he soothed, slipping in and out of his native tongue, easing his other orange and white wing about her damp shoulders, "no fear, señorita; we are safe, sí? Safe and warm, no harm shall come to us here. We have survived the night, we shall survive more. This I promise you, señorita; nothing will happen to you."

Tears of lost hope changed, from blue eyes flowed tears of a child, scared of a storm, seeking comfort from their parent. She forgot about Blaze's tumultuous past, of his pyromania and supposed insanity; instinct told her two things: he was male and he would protect her.

Great big yellow eyes widened as Aakora clung to him in desperation, as the storm continued to play out its satanic game. "Sí, dama pequeña. Tengo miedo también."

A huge monster of a thunderclap, followed by three discharges of very close lightning caused them both to keen their fear. Blaze, then Aakora, dropped to their bellies in the slop, the canvas dropping all around them, threatening suffocation. The big orange male heaved in the thick air, struggled to rise again. Aakora slipped, skidded into the main compost pile, burying black hind into rotting vegetables.

The very air hummed with energy. Something exploded near to them and instantly, smoke and debris whooshed under the small ventilation opening Blaze had created using a pile of compost as a prop for the canvas.

Quiet.

This is the end, they thought.

Aeons passed, time hiccupped and reality resumed.

A red taloned hand dipped into the ventilation hole, lifted, got a snout-full of damp, putrid gryphon. In one motion, the cover was whipped off their backs and glorious rain-fresh air, albeit tinged with smoke, hit their oh-so-abused nares. Khirsah Sinneau, smooth red hide gleaming in the misting rain, smiled at them. "If you like," Nauta's mate thrummed, "I can move on." He gave a broad, deliberate wink, slightly lewd, at Blaze. The tech-gryph's eyes widened once more.

"Nonononono!" he exploded, scything hands, splashing sludge everywhere in his haste.

Aakora, too awed at the lightened storm, did not catch this exchange. She pried herself free with Khirsah's help and with a wet pop sprawled flat into the muck. Quite dignified, she waved off further help attempts, trying in vain to restore her previous mask. Only to find that it would not come to her bidding; she had no need for it! she thought with wonder. Then she saw dragon and gryphon looking at her; scraping off her mud-plastered face, she minced away from the compost pile --

-- and looked in wonder at the change.

"I think we're free," Luna Star announced over her shoulder.

"Truly? Let's hope Khirsah found them all right," Nauta replied, reaching for the mug placed on her bedside table, taking the steaming cup from its saucer. She sipped carefully, revealing in its restorative powers. "I'm amazed that everyone came out okay."

"Me, too."

A sip. "Seems to me you Guilders have a knack for such things."

Luna turned, beak open. That wasn't something she'd been expecting to hear. "What do you mean, 'you Guilders'? Aren't you one of us?"

Nauta's blue-grey face split into a sunny smile, despite her obvious discomfort. "Oh, no, hon; Khirsah and I are, hm, affiliated with the Guild, shall we say. Yes, affiliates." She chuckled deeply. "We live elsewhere -- itinerants, like Crys' lovely faerie-Phoenix sister."

Her companion's mouth opened in the gryphonic equivalent of O. "I see, lucky you to be at the Guild at this time."

The cetan gryphoness smiled that small, secretive smile that Luna had come to associate with Nauta. "I think so, too, hon."

RESCUE ONE

No one could decide on which sound was worse: the storm's destructive howl or Hosea's protesting roars of claustrophobia. By now, both were in the same category, having been listening to them for almost a straight day and night.

"I can't work like this!" Fareme exclaimed, her usual calm demeanor swiftly evaporating as the minutes rolled on by. She'd tried off and on throughout their imprisonment to get him sedated, every trick in her Healer's book save mental override. Other things were far too important to devote more than fifteen minutes at the most to Hosea's terror -- such as Talen, here. With a snort, Fareme glanced up from where she was painstakingly restoring the damaged tissues of the anthro's tail. Syris and LunaFlare clung to the brown dragon's neck and tail, the two pieces of flesh that were doing the most damage to the area around them. LunaFlare was struggling to keep a clean coal bag over his bulging eyes; it only made things worse. "Some leader!" Fareme snapped tartly, "can't even keep his cool --" She tugged at a fresh bandage. " -- in the safest of places!"

A baying draconic roar sifted dirt and plaster from the ceiling, bringing large chunks down around their heads. The irritated smithy ran for cover, ducking under some stone table; Fareme threw her wings over her work area and Talen's head, feeling clots bouncing off her head like those tiny "super balls" gryphlets back home liked to play with.

A lull was brought about by LunaFlare using the canvas to drag Hosea's head down towards his chest, causing him to stumble. "GREAT GODS!" Fareme thundered, taking the advantage. With brutal force, she clamped her powerful mind down on the dragon's, breaking the most sacred of healer's rules. Now she was in control.

All at once, Hosea was reduced from mad to comatose; he tripped, fell flat on his face, snoring uproariously. Syris was thrown clear of the thrashing tail and rolled headlong into a stack of sandbags placed along one wall. There was a puff and the rainbow vulpine gryphoness was covered from head to toe in beige granules. Meanwhile, LunaFlare dropped like a stone from about Hosea's head and landed in a pile of grey feathers and white fur. Purple eyes bulged and her beak opened in a pain-keen; face contorted as she tried to rise, but her left hind wouldn't cooperate.

Fareme was too professional to fling up her hands in disgust, but she was this close -- she swore -- to doing so. Sighing, it took but a few more seconds to set the brown into a deep empathetic slumber; then, she stood and wandered over to where the hawkish gryphoness lay, tears oozing from her expressive royal orbs. Small, healer's talons moved with surprising gentleness that her previous outbursts belayed. Fareme located the tenderness and pronounced the wound but a sprain -- it would take but moments to set it right.

Inserting her own green healer's energies into the inflamed red of LunaFlare's leg, she soon sapped away the pain. Drawing on her powers, the Vulpegryph eased the swelling and soon her patient felt nothing but blessed coolness the length of the sprain.

"It was my fault," Fareme apologized, sitting back on her haunches. "I should have sedated him the moment we came in."

"It's ok," Luna told her, flexing her foot and putting pressure on it. "You had Talen to worry about. Besides, we didn't know how bad it really was." She readied a wince, but found none was necessary as she tested out her claws -- all was fine. Amazing, but that was Fareme. "Did you?"

Fareme paused in mid-pad back to Talen's prone body. "Did I what? Know about his claustrophobia? Yes, but like you said, I didn't think it was this bad; he's never been bothered by the Guild before."

"The storm probably made it worse," Syris supplied, from where she'd taken up lodging -- right on the same pile of sandbags she'd only just hit. Her pelt and plumage were still beige in some places, but she'd managed to clean up quickly. Reaching out, the gryphoness hooked another sandbag and fluffed it up the best she could. A sound made her turn her head; the smithy was emerging from his hidey-hole. We have you to blame for the most part, buddy, she thought irritably. Running around like a godsdamn paladin, swearing fire and brimstone on us if we didn't follow you to this primitive cave. What're you looking for? A freakin' medal? I'll give you a medal -- imprint the godsdamn thing on your ass, that's what I'll do!

"I don't believe you creatures," the smithy said, standing up, huge arms folded across his barrel of a chest. "Our saviors -- I risked my neck for you and you end up bitching your sorrow."

Heads snapped up all around -- those that were not out cold. LunaFlare flicked him a human rudeness gesture quite fluidly, following that up with the gryphonic equivalent. With Fareme busy, Syris spoke their collective thoughts aloud: "Ssso sssaysss you," she hissed, eyes narrowed to slits. "Ssssso ssssaysss the hero who ran pell-mell down the ssstreet like a baby. We have you to thank for our 'bitchinessssss'! If it weren't for you knocking Talen unconsssssciousss, we wouldn't be here, would we now?"

The smithy shrugged. "I couldn't let him throw his life away."

Eyes blazed red. "You haven't a clue, buddy, have you? We're fully aware of our misssssion! We're gryphonsssss for godssssake! We know when to fly and when not to! I don't ssssee any angel'ssss wingssss sssprouting from your blessssséd back!"

Just as the smithy was about to open his mouth, and Syris ready to shove one of the sandbags right down his gullet, the entire area gave birth to a huge shudder. The earth bucked and rolled underneath them and the air exploded into what sounded like a giant's cough. Everyone was thrown to their bellies for that shattering instant.

Syris scrabbled upright and wedged her multicolored body into the rooms only window pane. She peered in vain through the discolored glass, tail flagging in excitement. It was what she didn't see that caused her ecstacy. "It's stopped!" she crowed exultantly, whipping around and indulging herself in an impromptu dance of joy.

Cheers went up all around. "Quick -- get the Tsurieth! The Guild must be notified!"

LunaFlare dashed off at Fareme's urgent call, locating the corner where they'd stowed away their harnesses. From a pouch attached to Hosea's own, she produced their communication's device. Baring it in her fore, she gleefully passed it on to Fareme. The Vulpegryph took the half-globe with shaking hands, trying to recall the master combination.

"Shit -- think, 'reme, think!"

"Gryphon Guild, Eclipse speaking . . . Fareme!"

Grinning fiercely back at her was the bespeckled black visage of her soul brother. "Good gods, I can see you clearly. Does that mean the storm's broken where you are?"

Fareme nodded enthusiastically. "Oh yes -- just now. How're things, big brother?"

"Beginning to clear up as we speak. We owe those ladies a huge debt." Eclipse seemed to peer past her russet shoulder to the scene beyond. It was one of the features not present on her Tsurieth -- to switch focus. "What's going on here?"

Fareme jerked a thumb behind her. "Oh, him. Well, Mr. Hero back there decided we all needed 'saving' so he knocked Talen out and shoved us into his own personal stockade underground. Hosea's been going berserk all night; I finally had time to put the poor dear out for the afternoon."

"Is that so?" Eclipse adjusted his specs thoughtfully. "Well, that's bulk for you; nothing left to think with. Anyway, I was just going to contact you. Consensus here is for you to stay at the village a week or two more, to aid in the recuperation process. You up to it?"

"Only if we don't have to live in this stinkhole!" protested Syris from her perch.

Eclipse chuckled dryly. "I should hope not." His Tsurieth-generated image stared at the smithy as he said this. The huge man, for once, was without comment.

"I'll put it to Hosea when he wakes up," Fareme told him truthfully. Eclipse nodded consent. "Aye, until then."

RESCUE THREE

It was the low moan that alerted Nambroth to the people trapped. All four of her paws were dug into the wind-whipped, muddied soil, her nictitating inner lids closed fully. Even with their protection, she could barely negociate the dismembered barn.

Time had slowed when someone had cried out that the walls were caving in. With amazing clarity, Nambroth remembered the agonizing moments: first the roof, then one by one, as dominoes, the remaining walls collapsed inwards. Some snapped like kindling, others pirouetted on their ends, dancing like demonic tops, spraying splinters and loose boards in the process. On top of that, the rain beat down ceaselessly on their weary forms, forcing many, even Guilders like SilverMoon, to slink belly-down; the wind was another matter.

A crackle of lightning snapped Nam back to reality. She shook her head to clear her vision and clamped her wings tighter about her sides. Open, they would inevitably cause her to become the storm's personal plaything. The muffled "help" became clearer as she neared the source, even with the storm bringing all creation down around her ears.

She opened her mouth to answer, but got a beakful of water straight to her gullet. Hacking her lungs dry, Nambroth doubled over, wheezing. The cries muted suddenly as they heard their potential savior go down. Get up, Nam! she shouted at herself, rising, putting her right arm --

-- right through the safehole. Nambroth shot downwards at an awkward angle, wrenching her shoulder in the process. She threw up her head, keened aloud her pain. Water burbled forth as air was forced from her lungs, ironically preventing her from swallowing any more. Human hands grabbed at her own taloned one, tugged to see if it was still attached to her body. She howled as fresh lances of pain raced up her tortured limb, exploded into her brain as bright fireworks behind her eyes. Little bobbles danced merrily before her vission. I'm going to pass out . . .

She almost did, hovering on the precipice of awakening and the subconscious; but those stupid humans . . . she growled low in her battered throat. They kept pulling; she clenched her hand once more, hoping they got the message. She tried to lever herself with her hind, but those were trapped under planks and the pounding rain. The gryphoness was at their mercy.

Her shoulder slipped down and they took a hold of her upper arm and her wingjoint. Now I feel like a mole. More hands gripped at any free part of her arm and none-too-gently, jerked. The pumagryphoness' head hit the boards -- several times, actually -- before crashing through the safehole. Cries went all around her as people began to board up the enlargement. Nam swore tiny shining Tagars were playing bongo drums around her head as her vision swam from the fall.

She lay on her side, bleeding from several sharp cuts on her forearm and scrapes over her cere. Stormwater turned the mess pink, giving her a psychotically-comical look. Gulping in a dozen deep, cleansing breaths, Nambroth assessed her body’s situation; nothing felt broken or sprained – the exception of her tortured arm. She raised her wet crest, leveled a deathstare at the nearest villager. “What possessed you to do this!” she demanded, rasping off each word and snapping her beak irritably. “You could’ve killed me!”

Sheepish stares from everyone. Nambroth couldn’t believe it; she’d landed in the village idiot’s square!

“They did it to me, too, Nam.” The pumagryphoness whirled about, as fast as space permitted. There, surrounded as always by children, was Tephroliah; her white plumage was brown and dishelveled in some places, red in others. “Apparently, we misconcieved them about gryphonic strength.”

Nambroth sighed heavily. At least they were safe against the storm, as long as something didn’t fall on top of them – like SilverMoon, she thought grimly, no offense intended towards the dragoness.

“Any idea about Alma, Silver or Stormy?”

Teph shook her head, shooing away the little ones. She gestured for Nam to sit by her. “When the walls came down, I scattered without really looking. You?”

“Tagar and I escaped together. After the ‘dust’ settled, we rounded back, looking for survivors. In the confusion, we were separated.” Emotion caught in her voice.

The tigergryphoness murred, shaking her head once more. “We’re tough, Nam; everything’ll be okay.”

Nam tipped her head to the side. “You know what? I think so, too!”

A tremendous thunderclap shook the planks that formed their haven. Heedless of death and totally mindful of their mission, Tephroliah and Nambroth lept up, wings mantled, claws unsheathed. The villagers reacted as well; Death would find them very unwilling, indeed.

“Ho there, survivors!”

Nambroth was awakened to the sound of shuffling rubble; a light mist played tricks upon her nares. She snorted, clearing them, gazing up through reddened eyes at a familiar muzzle.

“Come, come, lazibones, the sky beckons you. It’s only mist!” A huge paw, like that of a crane, swooped down and picked up a tired Nambroth. The other came up swiftly to support the other end. With great care, SilverMoon deposited her charge next to an even more familiar form – Tagar!

A half an hour later, all the villagers were standing in the midst of the destroyed barn. All about them lay even more distruction – more than the meteor had ever caused. Off to the side was Stormy, talking fast and furiously to the now-working Tsurieth. Everyone was relieved to see that the only Vahazayan head rising above the half-globe was Crystal’s.

Almalthia touched Nam’s shoulder. “Would you like me to treat your cuts?”

“Yes, please,” and she gave herself over to the Northern gryphoness’ ministrations.

They’d survived – twice. Three times, actually. She could hardly wait to see the Guild again.

Not even Arhkris quite knew the exact moment his scanner was tipped off. To the right of the field was a definite blob, pulsing faintly. He switched over to a suped-up version of x-ray that could even peer through these stone walls. There, in the corner, a construction of bones, draconic-shaped.

“Relay back, we have a sighting,” he threw over his shoulder to Tath. Her eyes widened in the dimly-lit gloom. “RIGHT!”

Alarm rang through the whole mountain. Muse punched “all Guild” on his tiny teleson. **Immediate change of plans!** he “barked.” **All excavations – nay, all Guilders – report to twelfth level, wing two. Urgent! Drop everything – is that understood? Muse – out!**

© 2002 Crystal Shekeira. All Guilders are copyright themselves; the Gryphon's Guild is trademarked to Tserisa Supalla. All other names, places and events are copyright to MH. Do not copy, alter or distribute