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Forbidden Temple of the Great Falls

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"Grand, then, follow me. Weibel Belatia, take the rear-guard if you so please." Morr answered.

Together, the three moved through the temple, passing by the gardens with its beehives, though some of Morr's Hellguards were also visible, carrying the last barrels to be filled with food after the breakfast. Sergeant Belatia's eyes never wavered from Urist's broad frame during their march.
After several minutes, they reached the hall, in the farther rooms with the kitchen's cooks visibly hard at work, serfs busy bringing what was ready to the tables, brother monks and guards starting to file in and gathering at the tables.

Gesturing to one of the still empty seats, Morr spoke "Now is the hour of sustenance, eat, the journey shall soon begin. Weibel Belatia, I would be honored if you joined us, though I understand if you rather partake in the nourishment with your subordinates."

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Throwing another glance at the man calling himself Urist, Belatia answered sir Morr's offer "I will join you, sir Morr, I trust that my soldiers can take care of themselves during the breakfast. I also want to keep my guard up with him-" she gestured to Urist "- here, might as well keep guarding him. With all due respect, sir, I'm not as trustful nor forgiving as you are."

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"As is your decision, weibel Belatia." Morr courtly bowed his head, making his way to the table, while Belatia dragged Urist with her after him.
 
Vanessa finished up getting the food ready for the trip. she left the kitchen with a plate of food and sat down to eat. This time wearing light leather armor instead of in her cooks outfit. She was in deep thought about the trip as she ate.
 
Mary was up early, even as the first rays of sunshine entered through the small girls window she was awake and working.

A small knapsack, filled with items she needed was sitting full by the bottom of her bed, a messenger bag in her lap as she packed nothing but the essentials.

"...And another rug, Mister Feathers, just in case we get cold..." she spoke softly to the duck, not wanting to wake anyone else up.

Mary also packed a small sling, it was decorated with a fuzzy inside and served as the carry pouch she had put the ducklings in when they were younger, now she figured it would fit Feathers nicely.

She made her way to breakfast, sitting on her own she noticed the others enter, she ate quickly, taking more food and slipping it into her messenger bag which she kept under the table. After she had finished eating, around halfway through everyone else's breakfast she slipped off into the kitchen to fit more food into her messenger bag for her and Feathers.

Mary ran off up to her bedroom, careful not to draw attention to her self and after donning her most suitable clothes, (her normal attire plus the sweater Korsarro had made her around 3 months ago, topped off with a tiny waterproof cloak that would look ridiculous on anyone bigger) she put on the small shoes she always tended to not wear, and headed out to the wagon.

After waiting for the Hellguard to go off and collect another load of supplies she wandered over to the large wooden cart. It was half-full of barrels, chest and bags. She presumed these were to keep the food and gear the others were taking in. Using an empty crate she climbed into one of the barrels nearest to the wagon, the little girl's body having enough space to shift slightly in the large barrel. She poked out the cork in side and dropped it into the barrel along with her things, and after placing down a few blankets that had been liberated from the 'clean bin' in the linen closet, gently lifted Feathers in as well, after which she curled herself up into the barrel and pulled the lid on top. She poked the cork into the hole from the inside, giving her the ability to look out when she wanted and stop others peeking in and seeing her. She covered the top of her with a blanket, so that to anyone looking in it would resemble a pile of cloth to all but the closest inspection.

Then, she waited.
 
Urist ate wordlessly, taking in his surroundings, the people around him, and all. 'Least 's not poison. Or gruel.

Several times he would try to pick up a fork or knife with his injured arm, and would immediately regret it.
 
Valetni stirred from his sleep. Slowly, feeling every one of his years, he hauled himself to his feet. He crossed the room, barefoot and clad only in his undergarments to the closet. Sliding open the door on its track, he pulled out first the leather harness. Putting it on and securing it, he began hanging the various items that he habitually carried on his person. He frowned, noting that he was carrying much less cleaning supplies than he had traditionally carried. Come to think of it, he hadn't once carried out any sort of maintenance duty since his accident. He dropped a metal wirebrush, and as he leaned down to pick it up, the agony in his legs reminded him why. Valetni placed it back in the closet. He leaned against the frame, closing his eyes.

Perhaps it was time to retire.

Valetni sighed, he wasn't getting any younger, only older. He was at that age when a man began to think of what he may leave behind when he was gone. His face twisted as he pondered his legacy. He would be forgotten in one, maybe two generations. He hadn't thought himself the type to obsess about this stuff, traditionally keeping himself focused on the task at hand. And one task in particular. But how many years did he have left? Valetni wouldn't lay money that it would be more than ten, probably around seven. He raised his head, ignoring the heaviness in his neck muscles. Seven years until he died, he wondered how it would happen. Would he slowly struggle to find breath? His ravaged lungs no longer bringing him his precious oxygen as he slowly drowned in his own fluids? Would he one day simply not wake up, his eyes jaundiced and his liver failed, having slipped into a coma that he would never recover from? Or perhaps it would be his kidneys, and he lingered on for a few more days until the buildup of toxins in his system finally did him in. He shuddered. It was a ghastly thing to ponder. He clenched his fists, he was so damn brilliant, yet he couldn't do anything, all this potential and he couldn't save himself. He slowly let out a shaky breath.

No. Was he not Valetni? He would not die, he would suffer, he would linger, but he would never die. He would not allow such an ignoble fate to come to pass.

He opened his eyes, and in them burned a fierce resolve.

Dying was for other people.

With new found determination, he hung his new gas protection apparatus from the harness before donning his robes. He stepped into his sandals, and took a firm grip of his cane. The thick, textured live oak felt good in his hands. He turned to the bed, preparing to remake it. That was when he found it.

The journal.

Here.

On his bed.

Valetni never took his journals from where they rested. It was too much to risk. This confirmed his suspicion. The book had been stolen, and then it had been returned. The only question was, had somebody read it?

Valetni slipped it into his robes, and then squared his shoulders. Turning to face the door, he opened it and strode through it. He would have to get to the bottom of this mystery, but for now, he was going to have to see a man about a boat.
 
Movement below. There would be death soon.

He had not flown far to escape the poisoned land around the Temple, to find a place green, flourishing with life; though time seemed to move different in the ethereal space between cloud and treetop, the limber beat of the muscles anchoring his wings told him he had not been in the air more than 40 minutes. He had woken much earlier than usual, and for this reason alone; while others dined in the Hall, he would be far from them. Far from the temple. Far from the secure but suffocating trappings of civilization, however meagre, that had been slowly suffocating him. As much as the temple was his home, some other part of him called to a distant place, an untamed place; it seemed to be growing stronger in recent times, but it could easily have been his imagination- even before his change, he had never stayed in one place for too terribly long.

But that yearning brought with it something else, too, something altogether more worrying- Something that butcher-cut flesh served on a table could not satisfy. Swiftbeak felt a tinge of guilt for succumbing to his instincts, even just this once, but he knew the mission ahead would be long and trying- And it would be better to do this now, in privacy, then risk the trust or lives of the Brothers.

Movement, again. Between the trees.

He descended, throwing a shadow over the forest below; his eyes focused in like an archer staring down a notched arrow. A deer- A doe, even, cautiously and graciously trotting through the woods. The trees around her were thick and dense, but to the east they thinned considerably; he banked to the west. Descent, again, until he could feel the brush of pine on the bottom of his paws. A shriek, monstrous and loud.

The doe ran. Sprinted, to the east, away from the sound; away from the safety of the thicker brush. The creature above did not dive; it flew, steady and easy. Each second the hapless creature below bled away more of its energy, worked more of its muscle; by the time it had been driven into the wider trees, it was slowing. It heard no more sound. It slowed, to a trot. It was given one second of peace, one second of security, of obliviousness; this was Swiftbeak's final gift, his payment for all he was about to take.

The thunderous crack of dozens of breaking branches and the impossibly loud reverberation of a heavy body crushing bone- The gryphon's hindpaws fell on the doe's hindquarters, at once driving it to the ground and condemning it. Less than a second later, Swiftbeak's talons sunk to the ground around its neck.

He felt it breathe.

Wounded, bloodied, broken inside; death inescapable. It had no chance nor strength to survive, and still it drew breath. The gryphon felt the creature in its claws shivering, retching, one mangled hind-leg scrabbling pitifully at the dirt. Swiftbeak couldn't help but wonder if his end would be so pitiful, so fervently denied; if he would soar to his death head held high, or fall to land bleeding and choking in the dirt.

Such thought vanished. ALL thought vanished.

And now he was very much a monster, in mind and body- For the horrible truth was that he did not black out, he did not simply become an animal; his thoughts remained, but they turned to bloodlust. They turned to power. They turned to how he was a predator, how he held the power of life and death, how, so unlike that fateful day when he tumbled from the chapel tower, malevolent stone artifact clutched in his hands, he felt utterly invincible.

The doe shuddered, again. No- It would not die a peaceful death. It was prey. It had been caught. Bloody was its end; bloody would his talons be.

Swiftbeak tightened his claws, feeling them draw around the flesh of the doe's neck... And then squeezed them shut. Keratin pierced skin, then flesh and muscle, then vertebrae. The wet, sinewy crack of throat tearing and bone crushing drew a rumble of hunger from his stomach. A final shudder, and the doe was dead. Its life, its flesh, its blood- All his. As it should be. His beak dove down into the doe's body and wrenched the ribcage open, and he began his gory feast.

It would be a scant few minutes later that he'd finished stripping the carcass, and set about to find water to bathe himself in; it would not do to return to the brothers bloodied. He was confident he timed it well- He should be returning to the grounds near the time the others finished their breakfast.

By then, it would have faded. He was a man, again; a man in another body, but a man nonetheless. And, as he thought back on the urge that had drove him out here, and the redness that stained his talons, he was very much a scared man. He had feared death, once; he had begged to be spared it, and something terrible had listened. But no, he did not fear death now.

He feared what may happen should he continue to live.
 
As always, Morr ate rather mechanically behind his helmet, only lifting it up sufficiently to allow the remnants of his lips access to the nourishment provided, eating only to keep his flesh from degradation, as, due to having command now, he had a duty to live till the purpose was fulfilled, he was not used up yet in that regard, thus he had to accept.
Behind his helmet, his cold gaze swept over the dining hall's occupants, noting the Hellguards under his command, the cook, Sister Vanessa, in battle attire, though also the notable absence of sir Swiftbeak and, even after checking the relatively dark corners of the hall, that of brother Valetni.

Opposite to him, weibel Baletia had taken off her helmet, revealing short cropped brown hair crowning a sharp-featured face, the faint traces of scars at the edge of her right cheek, running over to her ear, as she ate her share of the sustenance, though her watchful gaze ever coming to a stop on the, easily to be called 'savage', broad frame of Urist, eyes narrowed in tense expectation of betrayal.

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"So, why don't you take your helmet off, sir?" sergeant Belatia asked the eating sir Morr. Rumor had it that barely anyone in the Temple had ever laid eyes onto his face unconcealed, or without his entire armor for that matter. Even during her guarding of Urist, even with Morr's supposed age, he had not taken one plate of the suit off.

It took a few moments before sir Morr's, as usual, emotionless, gravelly voice intoned, volume dimmed by the helmet's confines "I am well aware of the fact that my facial appearance is unnerving for most, I have suffered quite the disfiguring scars in my years of service. I do not wish to unsettle nor rob any those present here of their appetite."

"I'm a Hellguard-sergeant, you know. I've quite seen the worst that can happen to one." she commented, though left the matter.

Soon, the morning meal was finished, prompting the occupants to leave for their individual duties, serfs gathering the empty plates, preparing to wash them, as guards went for their patrols, monks for their bee-and-artifact-related studies.
The Hellguards, Belatia, Urist, after some demands, as well as Morr moved through the entrance-hall, the main lobby, outside, the ways lined by well-kept flowers for the bees to feast upon, where the wagon, laden with supplies, and the horses, one for each of the travelers, though Zato was rather expected to occupy the wagon.

Almost all preperations had been met, all that remained to do was wait for the others to arrive.
 
Zato, after eating a breakfast, walked up to where the wagon would be, his several jars clinking together. There weren't many, but it was a good, strong brew, his honey sweetened mead. Not only was it popular among his fellow monks, it could also be sold if they ever ran short of money.
He stretched his old legs a bit, preparing for a long walk to Pikewall. It reminded him of his younger days; he used to wander more often, but not in recent years, after he started caring for Mary. Still, it would be a short journey, and then he would be right back. An opportunity for him to travel came up rarely.
 
Swiftbeak swooped down to the temple grounds and made a heavy landing near the gathering wagons. To his amazement the horses did not seem terrible perturbed by his arrival, and fter a moment of consideration he realized any steed to be used by the Hellguard would have to be well trained, able to stay calm in the presence of even the most terrible creatures.

As Morr approached, the gryphon lightly bowed its head, wings drooping around its side like a great cloak. "Sir Morr. Are all of these horses for me? I fear you have greatly overestimated my appetite." Keeping its beak to the ground, the creature met eyes with Urist. "I do not believe I've had the pleasure of meeting you, though I've heard your bellowing. I trust it was your axe that I retrieved?"
 
Vanessa walked up to the wagon carring a small bag. She looked to zato then to the griffon nodding her head. She turned to sir Morr saying "I hope not having a weapon is okay sorry cook did not come with one." she then turned to urist saying "hello Iam vanessa the cook".
 
Urist loitered about, knowing he was being watched every second of the way, rather bored.

He was somewhat aware he was being spoken to by some sort of... Bird-cat-thing, and he muttered something about demons under his breath, looking tiredly at the sky above. He really ought to sleep more, he decided, since he wasn't going to get ambushed in a party this large.
 
Valetni found his way among the others. A minor fortune in rare and expensive alchemical reagents and ingredients stowed safely in the chest that Riley had dragged down for him. Dismissing the Apprentice, Valetni sat on the chest, resting his weary legs as he waited for the journey to start.
 
Pausing to look at sir Swiftbeak for a moment, Morr said "No, sir Swiftbeak, none of these horses shall serve as your sustenance. I made sure to order some meat prepared, salted and packed for later consume on your end, though I doubt it will hold for long if you eat continuousely, I thus suggest you primarily make your food source the local wild-life we will encounter. Besides that, I must ask you to scout ahead continuousely, if you are ready for that task. While I do not think that most of the journey will proceed with much event, the land between the temple and Pikewall is under close guard by the Hellguard, after all, caution is always advised."

Turning his helmeted gaze to sister Vanessa, Morr spoke "Worry not, sister Vanessa, if my predictions are right, you shall not even have need of one for the duration of the journey till we reach Pikewall at least, though I must yet insist that you have at least some measure of self-defence."

Throwing a glance at weibel Belatia, he called to her "Weibel Belatia, I must ask you to provide a dagger at least for sister Vanessa, if you would be so kind."

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Sergeant Belatia was a disciplined woman, full of belief, though certainly a rational amount of scepticism too, in her convictions in the years of service she had provided for her order. And though she was not easy to trust others, she yet treated them with the respect they deserved till proven otherwise. But now, this one before her, 'sister' Vanessa, she was someone she simply could not bring herself to regard without obvious suspicion.

After she had stumbled to this temple, obviousely on the run on something, she had been granted shelter with open arms, unlike what many others would have done. In return, she took the position as the cook and, while she fulfilled her job, always refused to expand upon the exact circumstances that had driven her here. Wolfram was even prompted to do an investigation behind the scenes, uncovering that most of her family had died quite recently under questionable occurrences.
Yet, she was a disciplined person and would not undermine sir Morr's authority over this matter, as she handed Vanessa a small dagger which would get the job done if an emergency called, while vowing she would always, or at least have someone else, watch this one.

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After all was said and done, the expedition under Morr saddled up, the Hellguards forming a protective circle around the wagon, those considered non-combatants like Valetni, Vanessa and Elia held near the wagon itself, while Swiftbeak would soar over them, form held aloft by powerful wings.

As predicted, the journey was without much trouble, every second day they would reach one of the outposts and give forth weapons as well as basic medical and food supplies, the nights spent under the watchful protection of the Hellguards and Morr, the days scouted by Swiftbeak.

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It was the seventh day of the journey, they had made good progress, though Belatia kept on saying that they would have been faster if not for the breaks, they were now en route to the last outpost before Pikewall.

Morr remembered having heard stories about this one in particular. A demon uprising had once occurred here, sweeping across the land to reach the temple and break from it its artifacts, at a time when most Hellguard forces had been sent off to fight such an incursion elsewhere. This outpost was the first to fall, of course, but not as many would have thought. The defenders, seeing the superior might of their enemies, while choosing some to hold the beasts off as long as they could, used the fortification's secret construction-tunnels to hide in, expanding the network as quickly and vastly as they could, even risking several cave-ins. Of course, the demons would follow them in their blind lust for slaughter, again and again smaller numbers of the Hellguard would split off from the main group to lead the beasts astray, trying to buy as much time as possible.

After an entire week of this ordeal, those remaining from the outpost's original garrison, had managed to create a vast network of tunnels, encompassing several miles even. Saying their last prayers, the remaining Hellguards spread out in a suicide-run, striking the brittle walls, causing almost all of the tunnels to collapse, resulting in that almost the entire region sank, killing an uncountable number of foes, weakening the demonic forces considerably, slowing them down even more so.

Quite the heroic tale. He had loved reading this when he was a mere twenty years of age.

And now, with their surroundings slowly changing from the golden brown of the plains behind them to a more grass-grown and rough area, with the sun burning down onto their backs, they expected to reach the rebuilt outpost by nightfall.
 
Mary snoozed in the large barrel. Most of the days had been spent like this, curled up and asleep during the day and then active at night, she'd burnt through the meagre supplies she'd taken within the first two days, after that she had slipped the top of the barrel off in the middle of the night and quietly refreshed her supplies from those within the cart. It had been tricky at first, but once she learned the routine of the Hellguard it was relatively easy for her to slip out whilst Junkins was on watch and stretch her legs.

Feathers had been surprisingly quiet, apparently happy to just sit in her lap during the day and be fed at night.
 
Vanessa rode in the cart dagger in her boot. She only got out when they stopped to fed the party. She felt safer now that she had a dagger to protect herself. She took a peace of cheese and munched on it as she looked at the area around her.
 
Swiftbeak spent much of the journey high above, sharp ears and attentive ears trained on the ground below and the road ahead. High enough to ride the thermal currents of warm air rising from the sun-baked ground, he flapped rarely and glided easily, the hours passing smoothly in a state of transcendence. To be one with the clouds, to see hills and cliffs and the horizon and know there was nothing keeping you from them; that you were going only where you chose to go, and nothing could tell you otherwise. For a moment, his loyalty to those below felt more a chain than a blessing, but one look down on the shining armor and dutifully trotting horses dispelled that momentary bitterness. He could easily have freedom, if he chose to take it; purpose? Friends? They were infinitely rarer to him, and worth protecting over anything.
 
Urist spent most of the journey arguing with guards, attempting to make bets, boasting of his victories, and wishing he had a weapon and two working arms.
 
What the other members of the journey could not possibly have perceived was the screeching of metal clashing onto metal many miles up the path to the outpost.
It was the tell-tale noise of a battle, or at least one in miniature form, fought between two opponents, though too far for anyone on the ground to even remotely notice.
 
His reverie of flight was interrupted by the harsh sounds of warfare, snapping the creature to alertness. Swiftbeak dove to pick up speed, shooting far ahead of the caravan to find the source of the clatter; it couldn't be an ambush, or there wouldn't already be fighting, so at least he need not worry about someone having leaked information of the caravan. Staying a safe distance above the ground so as not to be mistaken for an opponent, he settled into a circling pattern above the swordclashes, and focused his eyes to see the source.
 
What was easy enough to notice was the one, bleeding heavily, clad in the rust-red armor of the Hellguard, crossbow strapped to her back, armed with shield and axe, she could barely hold the man off that was wailing onto her with fanged sword and dagger.

Her opponent, a savage man standing easily at six feet yet was apparently blessed with inhuman speed, muscles visibly bulging unnaturally under the remnants of rusted armor, right arm holding the dagger concealed under rough cloth as he brutally struck the struggling Hellguard again and again without mercy, seeking to tear through her shield with pure might.
 
If Swiftbeak had a penchant for thought before action he might still be a human.

He sharpened his dive to a swoop, descending from the sky with great speed and all the weight of his muscle. His target was obvious; anyone trying so fervently to kill a Hellguard was doing ill, and the hint of inhumanity pervading his appearance only assured the gryphon that something was not right. Approaching from behind at as steep an angle as he could, at the last minute he leveled out; while the rush of air and the beat of his wings steadying himself would likely be heard, he could only hope he moved fast enough for his hindlegs to swing forward and impact the man square in the back- If the blow wasn't enough to shatter bone through the armor, it would hopefully at least throw him a few feet away, allowing the hellguard to get back on her feet.
 
A mad giggle intoning from behind the savage man's cowled face, he struck the dagger into the Hellguard's shield, pulled it away even while she slashed her axe deep into his shoulder, while letting his sword strike down upon her neck.
Kicking back, she managed to save her life at the cost of the sword now instead tearing through the arm holding her shield, cutting the limb off cleanly just before the shoulder.

Gasping in shock, she fell to the ground, allowing for the man to lash out, this time to end her entirely.

If it had not been for Swiftbeak, that was. Uncaring for his surroundings, delighting in the smell of freshly spilled blood, the man was utterly unprepared as the gryphon's body slammed into his, throwing him away. Gurgling sounds emanating from behind the cloth, anger apparent, he called out as he tried to stand back up again even despite just having been hit with the force of a charging boar "WHAT THE FUCK, CAN'T AN HONEST MURDERER DO HIS WORK IN PEACE?" while he clutched his sword, dagger lost, with both hands, though still rising unsteadily.

The Hellguard ripped off a piece from her cloak and pressed it against the stump where her arm had formerly been, while staring through her helmet's visor at the confrontation, not knowing if the creature that suddenly appeared was a friend or foe yet.
 
After knocking the man off his feet the gryphon bled off his momentum by angling his wings and hitting the ground just behind the would-be murder, turning to see him rising to his feet and cursing. Only now did Swiftbeak stop to think that he had not actually fought an armed and armored opponent as this creature, yet; his vulnerabilities, his strengths, they were mysteries to him beyond the obvious- And he had already given up the element of surprise. He could take to the air again, but that would leave the Hellguard unaided. It was no option.

He walked slowly, circling around, never taking his hunter's stare off the brute; he only stopped when he had maneuvered himself between the Hellguard and her assailant. He let a deep, resonating growl rumble from his throat.

"I will give you this once chance. Throw your weapons to the ground and leave, or I will make you envy the pain this woman has suffered."
 
"BWHAHAHHAHAHAAHAHHAHA HOH BOY, WOULD YA LOOK AT A THAT! DON'T WORRY, SIR NOBLE FAGGOT! I AIN'T A MURDERSNOB AT ALL!" laughing madly, the man charged, uncaring for the axe still stuck in his shoulder, nor the copious amounts of blood flowing out, he threw himself at the gryphon, shouting "EVERYONE'S GETTING THE SAME AMOUNT OF MURDER FROM ME!"
Striking and slashing at the gryphon, attacking anything he could see about the beast, most prominently his wings, long neck and beak while his own blood splattered with every strike, it was obvious that he attempted to push the gryphon back till he could reach the Hellguard again who, gritting her teeth, was currently reaching behind her back for her Hell's-Fang-Crossbow, hard at work to load the weapon while only having one hand available.
 
Unfortunately, intimidation only worked on the sane.

Swiftbeak darted his head back, but the sword scraped along the closest thing to the man; the gryphon's beak suffered a deep, ugly scratch. Instinctively he wanted to rear back, but it would take only one plunge of that sword into his underbelly to put him down; instead, he at once lowered his head to protect his throat. Another slash, this one sending a crimson line above his eyes; his vision clouded by a blood flowing down through his feathers, he had no choice but to spring backwards, still struggling to keep himself imposed between the guard and the man. With little time to think and already feeling drastically overwhelmed, he knew he had to buy himself precious seconds any way he could. He thrust his beak forward to meet an oncoming swing; the keratin took the blow better than flesh, but he felt agony surge through the delicate tissue below. For a brief second his mind flashed back to when he was human, when he was a child; he had shattered a tooth during a fall and felt the exposed nerve within- The pain was similar.

With the man's sword-arm occupied with his beak for that split-second, he brought a wing around, unfurling it and sweeping it forward like a limb; a full half the force needed to lift his massive body off the ground would ideally send the man staggering back and, more importantly, catch the entirety of his attention- Should he turn to face Swiftbeak, the gryphon would turn to the side, eyes still locked on his foe, and gradually lead him to look away from the Hellguard.
 
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