Night fell softly—the kind of night one remembers as being quite peaceful and there’s not a care in the world. A velvet cover drawn over the minds of the unsuspecting victims.

Through this serenity wound the serpent, its prismatic fangs bared and dripping otherworldly ichor. On whatever the ichor landed shriveled and shrank, curling brown if it was flora, shuddering in its sleep if it was fauna. They would not feel its effects instantly. Sensuously in the way of serpents it came upon its destination. Through solid rock it passed, head darting, tongue flicking to taste the scents of its victims. There were no orders on whom to touch, no number of how many; the serpent was on its own, to choose whom it will.

Here and there, it slipped under doors, coiling up upon its hapless victim. Down struck the deadly fangs. Skin shuddered in sleep; the snake reared back, leaving two tiny holes that quickly scabbed over, oozing slight pus in the process. And on again to the next room.

As the night wore on, the ethereal slave was growing weak; the spell, while complete, had been in haste. It passed one final door and followed its acute senses to the main sleeping chamber. Warmth radiated in this place, sending shivers through the cold creature’s smokelike skin. Flat, emotionless eyes scanned the room and found what it was looking for. A black taloned hand draped over the edge of the bowl-like bed, another of a different color next to it. Like Death, the snake creaped up and angled its head for the bite.

Into the black scaled skin the ichor-dripping fangs sank. Into its mouth flowed the victim’s blood, into their veins flowed the poison. The snake pulled back, feeling a strange warmth steal through its body. Smoke began to pour from its mouth, visciously rolling in the otherplane. The snake gagged, throwing up a pool of red—that of its victims’—and intermixed with that was a thin vein of ivory.

The creature began to spasm, coiling in on itself, harder and harder, tighter—so tight—until in one shattering instant, it imploded. It had tasted Vahazayi blood.

Crystal murmured in her sleep, turning over and taking her punctured hand with her. No one had heard a thing.

Hoofy peered across the table at her mate, the starfighter Talen EmeraldBlaze. The horned winged vixen’s eyes narrowed with concern as Talen pulled out a chair roughly and slumped down in it. His eyes were flat and emotionless, a small line of mucus ran down the side of his beak and his feathers lacked the lustre it had possessed the night before.

Before she could say anything, her mate spoke: “Damn, if I don’t feel good.”

Hoofy tipped her head to the side, a habit she’d picked up here at the Guild. “You were fine last night—did you eat something bad?”

Talen allowed himself a thin-lipped smile (or in his case, a small quirk of the beak). “Love, I can eat anything and everything. I rather doubt I diggested a sour liver.” Even as he spoke, his eyes crossed and he turned green around the nares; clamping one hand to his gut, the other to his mouth, Talen shoved himself to his feet and raced towards the nearest garbage barrel where he was violently sick. A few heads turned at the retching; Hoofy was on her own hooves in an instant, putting a comforting arm around his shaking shoulders. Her repetative mantra of “Are you okay?” fell on deaf ears as Talen emptied his stomach and then some into the barrel.

Another chair shoved back and there was someone at Hoofy’s side. “You want I get Fareme?” that person whispered, averting their eyes and trying not to breathe at the same time. Hoofy glanced out of the corner to see Malistryx the gryphoness’—not to be confused with the hemitite lady Malystryxx Blackmoon—white face near her own. Hurriedly, the winged vixen whispered, “Yes, hurry, please do!”

Like a shot, Malistryx was off, her shimmering plumage likening her to a wave off the northern lights.

Fareme was a deep sleeper. It took several hard pounds on her small dorm door to bring the Vulpegryphoness Healer to a conscious state. “Wha’… is it?” she drawled, pausing to wipe a smidgen of drool from the corner of her beak.

Mali tugged on her forearm. “Quick, ’reme—we got an emergency!”

“Wha’ em-mer-gency?”

Frowning, the white gryphoness pulled harder. “Talen’s puking his guts up in the café!”

“Take two and call me in the morning …” Sleep still fogging her thoughts, Fareme turned and tottered back into her room. With a snarl, Malistryx darted in and made for Fareme’s small bathroom. She filled a cup full of mountain water—ice cold—and came back into the common room. Grabbing the Vulpegryphoness by the arm again, she threw the entire contents into Fareme’s face.

“Whooooooooo—SHIT!”

Eyes rolling, Fareme fell backwards and sprawled out on her plush rug, limbs going in all directions. Coughing and spluttering, she hurriedly dashed her hands across her face, feathers wet and dripping onto the fur of her rug. With a violent shake, the tiny Healer stood up and glared at Mali. “What in the name of all that’s Holy—”

“Let’s go!”

Grabbing her around her middle, Mali bounded out the door (closing it) and made a beeline back to the café. As they ran along, more Guilders were waking up in the bright glory of dawn. Most looked as they normally did when getting up; a few did not. They appeared just as Talen did, eyes sucken and green about the gills. If it wasn’t such a serious situation, the sight of five Guilders throwing up at the same time might have been funny. Others didn’t make it as far; they collapsed in their doorways, much to the horror of their neighbors. The cry when up for Healers—any Healer.

When Mali finally brought her charge into the café, more than just Talen were clustered around the garbage barrels.

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