QoC - Huntin' innawoods [(MLP) Anon/Gilda]


                                            Author: QoC

                                            Pastebin URL: abk5qXPB.html

                                            Date: Apr 11th, 2017


                                            ----------


                                            > Feeling the soft grass beneath your paws, you silently move through the dusky woods of the Everfree forest.

                                            > The clock must have passed ten on this still warm summer evening. The sun has just set an hour ago, but there’s still a faint light even in the woody gloom.

                                            > Having visited Rainbow earlier in the day, you figured you’d take a detour through the greens to snatch up a rabbit or maybe even a small boar before you return to Griffonstone.

                                            > You shut your beak in a small clicking noise, more to break the monotony of the surrounding foliage, than for a specific purpose.

                                            > Walking past the trees, you can hear the sounds of life, bird chirpings and squirrel rustling, dim to a low as you move past, only to pick up again behind you as you pass.

                                            > The forest is bountiful with life, you just have to know where to lo-

                                            > The sharp snapping sound of a branch being thread on echoes through the woods.

                                            > You stop dead in your tracks. Not moving a muscle, you scan your surroundings, sniffing the air, listening for new clues on what caused the sound.

                                            > The wind is blowing from your right side, and the sound emanated from the left.

                                            > You’re upwind, you muse. You won’t be able to smell whatever it is that made the sound.

                                            > Waiting in stock still anticipation, five minutes pass in silence. The noises of the forest has grown silent as well, you notice.

                                            > Bracing your hind legs for a frantic jump in case something charges you, you spot it.

                                            > A tall biped creature begins moving. It’s only because of its movement that you can see it. Its body is covered in deep-green clothing, with pieces of coarse leather strapped to it here and there. Its face is painted in a mix of hazel brown and leaf green.

                                            > Or, rather, him.

                                            > Anonymous, the “humon”.

                                            > You didn’t get to meet the guy when you visited Ponyville.

                                            > You’ve hear Rainbow mention him, a tall creature, with physique like a minotaur. Or, similar to a minotaur. You’ve certainly never meet a minotaur this silent.

                                            > As he begins moving further into the forest, you can see more details on his equipment.

                                            > A large broad spear is held firmly in his hands, with another two smaller ones lodged in a large quiver across his back. A knife sits comfortably in a sheath at his sides.

                                            > Sweet Celestia, that knife is the length of one of your front legs…

                                            [spoiler] That’s a ‘noife, son. [/spoiler]

                                            > A rugged looking knapsack hangs from the side of the quiver, with another smaller one on his hip, next to the knife.

                                            > He hasn’t spotted you, either that, or he’s blatantly ignoring you.

                                            > Despite his impressive size, he moves effortlessly through the underbrush.

                                            > Waiting for him to get a good deal ahead of you, you stalk in behind him, your curiosity getting the better of you.

                                            > As the two of you move through the forest, you wonder what kind of prey he’s hunting. Rainbow did mention that he ate meat, but not what kind. Glancing at the large spear ahead of you, you conclude that he’s not here for the fishing ponds…

                                            > You don’t know what parts of you that make you follow in his footsteps. Could be curiosity, could be the desire to know how this stranger hunts. Could be some spec of griffon stubbornness about how it’s the hens that bring home the game, and not the cocks.

                                            > Silly cocks…

                                            > All of the sudden, Anonymous stops. You do as well.

                                            > Leaning down to your left, you spot a large stag standing some forty feet from you.

                                            > It’s blissfully unaware of both you and Anonymous. You’re upwind again. You can smell the stag, and the faint smell of sweat from the humon.

                                            > Surely, he isn’t goi-…

                                            > Anonymous crouches down on his hunches, and places his long spear in the moss besides him. Fishing forward one of the smaller spears on his back, he retrieves what look like a long string of leather from the bag on his hip.

                                            > He places one end of the leather strap around the base of the digits on his hand, the other end in a nook on the end of the spear from the quiver.

                                            > What is he doing, you ponder. He can’t fight a stag that size.

                                            > Silently, he rises up again, curling his digits around the spear.

                                            > The stag looks up, scanning the surrounding area. Anonymous, on his part, is still again. When the beast continues grazing, he hefts the spear up near his head, almost as if he wants to throw it.

                                            > The realization hits you as the fibers and tendons of Anonymous’ arm flex and throw the spear at mindboggling speed. You didn’t even see it fly, before it struck the stag in the side. A meaty “thunk” sounds through the woods, before a pained cry from the animal is

                                            > The stag sensing the danger and the hurting in its side begins fleeing.

                                            > Grabbing his spear again, Anonymous takes the chase, forgetting everything about staying silent. You scramble to catch up to the humon, his long legs giving him an impressive speed.

                                            > You can smell it, the blood covering the leaves you brush past. He must have hit near an artery or something.

                                            > You’ve never seen anyone hunting like this. It’s exhilarating. The chase, the anticipation, the strength of wills put against one another. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever experienced.

                                            > The staggered breathing of the wounded stag is a clear indication that this short chase is nearing its end.

                                            > You come up to a small clearing in the woods. The stag, having realized the meaningless aspect of trying to flee, squares up in a final stand against the predator. The spear is stilled attached firmly in its side, paining its movements and breathing.

                                            > Seeing the stag has given up trying to escape, Anonymous readies his broad spear in his arms.

                                            > Rearing up, the stag begins running at him in a last-ditch attempt to kill its adversary.

                                            > Anonymous, in turn, lodges the end of his spear firmly in the ground, placing a leg on it. Leaning forward, he points the pointy end towards the charging animal, bracing for the inevitable collision.

                                            > Speechlessly, you watch from the side as the stag reaches the spear, impaling itself upon the metal head. The body struggles for a moment, before accepting its fate, and the beast collapses on its side.

                                            > He doesn’t waste any time celebrating the results of his efforts. Anonymous immediately withdraw the spear from the chest of the stag, drying of the tip in the long grass.

                                            > He reaches back into the bag on his side, producing a long piece of rope. Carefully, he begins tying the legs of the stag together in two parts, before tying the two ends of the rope into a rough harness.

                                            > Before adorning the newly made harness, he picks up his weapons, placing the small spear back in its quiver, and the larger spear in a holster on the side of the quiver.

                                            > He tightens the ends of the harness against his broad chest, and begins dragging the corpse back the way he came.

                                            > The same direction you are currently sitting in…

                                            > As silently as you can, you scramble to get out of the way of this humon. He’s clearly on a whole other level of hunting than you are. You’d need at least three more griffons to take down a deer that size.

                                            > Grunting, Anonymous continues along the path the three of you made in your chase.

                                            > Following behind, you begin to think.

                                            > A guy of that size probably weigh in the range of 180 pounds. [spoiler] That’s ~84 kg for you non-capitalists. [/spoiler]

                                            > How does he move so silently, you wonder. He must have covered his hind legs in some sort of cloth. Perhaps if he knows Rainbow, he might know the purple egghead as well. Maybe she enchanted some of his equipment…

                                            > With these thought-experiments in your head, you mindlessly snap your beak deep in ponder.

                                            > Anonymous stops in his tracks. Oh drat, he heard that, you realize.

                                            > Quickly untying the ropes across himself, he quickly leap into the foliage on his left.

                                            > You lose sight of him immediately.

                                            > Shit shit shit…

                                            > You throw yourself down on the forest floor, to minimize your profile

                                            > This is not good. You’ve got a thinking predator sneaking around the area. It’s armed with deadly weapons. It’s aware of your presence, but not where you are…

                                            > Quickly mulling over your options, you quickly sort out the most obvious. You can’t fly away. The foliage is too thick, and the tree tops blocks the skies. You can’t run from him, you only barely managed to keep up with him on the chase.

                                            > Perhaps you could f-fight him?

                                            > Yea girl, no chance.

                                            > He’s larger than you, coupled with the further reach from his spears. Even if you managed to close the distance between the two of you, he’s still got that knife.

                                            > Not a sound is heard in the woods.

                                            > That is, until a whizzing sound flies past you before a “thunk” is heard. Instinctively, you look in the direction it flew. One of his spears, still dangling, is lodged firmly in the trunk of a large oak.

                                            > Wait a minute, if the spear flew that way… That means tha-…

                                            > Before you can react, a large burly hand snap out of the bush besides you, closing its digits around your beak. Frantically trying to escape, you flail your claws in the direction of the arm.

                                            > Your claws only scratch the hard leather surface of the bracelets covering the arm.

                                            > Another arm shoots out, clamping your two front legs together. Hefting you up, the two arms throw you on your side, effortlessly. A knee is placed atop of your claws, immobilizing them, while the digits retract, unsheathing the knife at his belt.

                                            > Your efforts stops dead cold as the feeling of the metal blade is pressed against your esophagus.

                                            > The two of you sit there for a few moments, before he speaks.

                                            > His deep baritone voice revels no emotions, only a calculated usage of precious air.

                                            > “Nod if you understand me,” he says.

                                            > You nod feverishly, or as frantic as the knife permits.

                                            > Sighing, and displaying what can only be obvious annoyance, he continues

                                            > “Why did you follow me?” he asks, removing his digits from your beak.

                                            “I-I’ve never seen a humon hunt before,” you stammer.

                                            > “It’s “human”, birdbrain, and I’m not buying it” he corrects. You don’t dare make a huff in indignation.

                                            > “Do you know Twilight Sparkle, purple pony with wings and horn, the whole package?” he continues, awaiting your response.

                                            > Again, you nod, sensing an escape from this.

                                            > “Great,” he says. “Then you can explain to her why you were following me.”

                                            > Drat.

                                            > “Aaaand..." he continues "Seeing how you’ve got some explaining to do, you might as well take your fair share of the workload back.” He smiles a hideous smile, revealing rows of shimmering white teeth, with the occasional canine.

                                            > Double drat.


                                            > As it turned out, Anonymous’ idea of “sharing the workload back” consisted of crafting you a harness as well. He had taken a new length of rope, and using one his bracelets, made you a small strap similar to his.

                                            > His bracelet was placed in front of your chest beneath the coarse rope, to prevent it from gnawing in your plume. Had to give the guy credit, he came up with that on his own. It even helped dissipate the strain from the dragging.

                                            > Also, it felt kinda nice to have a guy tuzzle your fluff.

                                            > MommaLikes.purr.

                                            > Anonymous stops his adjustments of the rope, giving you a questioning look. Awkwardly, you hold a claw to your beak and cough.

                                            “Sorry, got something in my throat,” you say.

                                            > “Suuuuure,” he says, a smirk dancing across his lips.

                                            > Buck.

                                            > He moves to your left, adjusting the straps. Following the length of the strap, he comes up to the ropes connecting on your back. They’re joined together with his own harness, making it impossible for you to flee without dragging him and the stag along for the ride.

                                            > Moving down your back, he probes your thigh with a digit, tracing the curvature of your leg.

                                            “Wha-what are you doing?!” you ask miffed.

                                            > “Nothing, nothing. Just wondering how much pull there is in those scrawny things,” he mentions nonchalantly.

                                            “Pl-plenty enough for this, you jerk!” You splutter incredulously. He laughs softly. “S-so, how are we gonna do this?”

                                            > Looking his own harness over again, Anonymous stands up, and points at what you expect to be the direction of Ponyville.

                                            > “You’re in the front, I’ll guide,” he explains. “If we make good speed, we’ll be back in roughly one hour.”

                                            > Nodding, you wait for him to begin walking and you fall in line in the front. It feels kind of strange with Anonymous walking a couple of feet behind you.

                                            > It’s been only been five minutes, but it’s already getting on your nerves. The only sounds are the quiet dragging of the stag, and Anonymous’ and yours breathing.

                                            > The silence of the woods starts getting on you immediately. The constraining feeling of the strap preventing you from flapping your wings, how the ropes moved with your body.

                                            > You have to break the silence, or you’ll go crazy.

                                            “So… um, big guy, what’s your story,” you begin, hoping to both break the stiffness of the situation and to maybe get on his good side. You might even get some juicy details you could use later.

                                            > Huffing in thought, Anonymous goes quiet for a moment.

                                            > “My name is Anonymous Incognito, and I’m a human”, he says. Nothing new, you muse.

                                            > “As far as I know, I’m the first of my name, and the last of my kind.” He continues. The sudden gloominess of his statement catches you off guard, making you stumble.

                                            > You turn your head to look at him. A wide grin on his face.

                                            > “Nah, I’m just pulling your tail,” he laughs. “Twilight did some magic mumbo-jumbo summoning ritual. Whatever creature she hoped to summon, saucy alien or whatever, it sure wasn’t little old me, she expected to turn up in that circle of kitchen salt and theatrical blood.”

                                            “Aha…” you answer, not really knowing how to respond.

                                            > “She’s been hard at work at finding a way to send me back, but to be quite honest, I’m not in a hurry.”

                                            “Why’s that?” you ask baffled. “Don’t you have a place to return to?”

                                            > The silence returns for a time. The creaking of the ropes is the only new sound every now and then.

                                            > Glacing back over your shoulder, you see him looking to his right. His features are hard to read. Studying his face in detail, you make a small note of the sharpness of his features.

                                            > A pointy nose protrudes from his flat face. Combined with his wide brows and semi-long beard, he has this aura of confidence surrounding him. Commanding respect to his stature. His beard is a mix of dark-brown and black streaks.

                                            > He turns his head back to look at you, a small smile on his lips.

                                            > “Let’s just say that I’m okay with where I am right now, and keep it that.”

                                            > You nod, opting not to probe at the subject.

                                            > “What’s your name, birdie?”

                                            “Gilda,” you answer. Humming, he accepts your answer.

                                            > As you turn to continue on your way back, Anonymous begins whistling. The sounds is melodic, and carries a nice little charm to it. It swirls in momentum, depth and span, echoing through the woods.

                                            > You have to stop yourself from chirping along. You’d downright die from embarrassment.


                                            > Finally, after what feels like eternities, you arrive on the outskirts of Ponyville. The human points to a large wooden house near the edge of the forest.

                                            > As you get closer, you can spot what looks like a herb garden on the side of the house. The soft smell of garlic, rosemary, basil, dill, parsley, and even thyme surrounds the entrance to his home. On the other side, you spy rows of tomatoes and potato stalks.

                                            “Aren’t tomatoes and garlic…” you begin.

                                            > “poisonous to ponies? Yes, they are.” He begins loosening the ropes around himself, and the ones connected to your harness. “Had one hell of a discussion with Twilight about growing those. Luckily, my “stallionly whimsy” won in the end,” he says with a smirk.

                                            > He reaches into his tunic, producing an iron key hanged in a brass chain from his neck. “Go on open up the door, I’ll be there in a second,” he says, turning back to the stag.

                                            > Walking up to the front door, you insert the key into the keyhole, and twist the doorknob. As you open the door, Anonymous speaks up again.

                                            > “Oh yea, you might want to know that I live with Loki.”

                                            “What is a Lo-“ you say, only to feel the weight of a large furry creature ram your side, tackling you on your back.

                                            > The soft fur and self-righteous growling of, well, a pony-sized dog permeates your sight, hearing and smell.

                                            > A thunderous laughter erupts from Anonymous. “I see you’re already well acquainted,” he comments. Hearing its owner voice, the dog snaps to his side, craving its master’s attention.

                                            > You wobble back onto your paws.

                                            > Petting the dog affectionately, Anonymous then lifts up the stag onto his shoulders, and moves sideways through the door. You follow behind the menagerie, Loki brushing up and down your side in affection.

                                            > Moving carefully through the house, Anonymous leads you to a large white-tiled kitchen. Placing the deer down on a small raised platform, also covered in the tiles, he moves through the room, lighting candles.

                                            > You sit down on a chair by a small table. Loki, on his part, sits in front you front, wearing the droopy happy smile only a dog can.

                                            > You awkwardly extend a claw to pet its head. The dog closes its eyes, seemingly content with your poor excuse for pets.

                                            > After a moment, Anonymous has lit up most of the candles in the room, and places down a cylindrical leather piece on the table. Unfurling the bag reveals rows of tools.

                                            > Bone saws, cutting knives, tongs…

                                            “T-that’s for the stag, right?” you hesitate.

                                            > “Huh? Oh yea, that’s for the stag,” he confirms. “Never really like the taste of fowl…” he mumbles.

                                            “What’s that supposed to mean?” you croak.

                                            > Anonymous chuckles, “Relax, catbutt. I’m not going to cut you up.” He reaches over for a small knife in the bag, and moves back to the deer. Carefully, he begins skinning the animal, starting at its hooves. He works slowly, and steady across the length of the animal.

                                            > You watch him, fascinated by his methodical way of work. He works tirelessly for hours.

                                            > As he tugs off the skin of the stag, he grabs a small shower head, and hoses down the body of blood. He places the hide to the side, and retrieves a large knife and the bonesaw.

                                            > As he begins to cut through the stag, you feel your eyes get heavy. It had been a long day, and the trek back had taken its toll on you. You lean over the table, relaxing your spent body.

                                            > Before you know it, you’re fast asleep.


                                            > You open your eyes from a dreamless slumber. Looking around you reveals your placement on a sofa way too large for you. A heavy sheet is draped across your body, and a soft pillow acts as your headrest.

                                            > The soft smell of black coffee welcomes you to the world of the living. You spy the dog laying in front of the roaring fire in the hearth across the room.

                                            > Only the occasional crack of the fireplace breaks the silence.

                                            > You hear the sound of a door opening, and you turn your head to watch Anonymous step through the front door. In his hands is a small bag marked “SCC”, a clear indicating of his visit to the local bakery.

                                            > “’Morning, I remembered I ran out of bread last night, so I went to get some more. I also hope you like coffee, it’s the only thing I got to spare,” he says.

                                            “Yea, sure, it’s fine.” You reply, smelling the delicacies in the bag.

                                            > “I’m gonna make some eggs as well, how do you like yours?” he asks, moving back into the kitchen.

                                            “Fertilized,” you say unabated.

                                            > Realization of what your stupid brain just said hits you like a cart. A feeling of absolute horror comes right after that.

                                            > Anonymous stops, and looks at you. “Scrambled, got it,” he says.

                                            > Someone please kill you.


                                            > Looking up from your plate, a small monolith of well scrambled eggs adorning its ceramic surface, you look at Anonymous sitting on the other side of the table.

                                            > A feast of hashbrowns, bread, condiments, [spoiler] ketchup [/spoiler], various fruits and veggies line the space between the two of you. You even spy a small plate of bacon. Real, honest to the Ancestors, bacon...

                                            > The soft sizzling of the small pan sitting to the side reveals its hearty content of diced mushrooms and what appears to be small slivers of beef.

                                            > A large teapot lets loose the faint trail of fumes from its tout. A crystal decanter stands proudly next to its shorter, warmer, neighbor. Its content evidently apple juice.

                                            > The appetizing aromas permeate the room. Combining the fragrance of the feast, the rustic scent of burning wood and ash from the fireplace, both serve to accentuate one another.

                                            > The broad polstered chair upon which you sit is finely crafted, the materials sturdy and a testament to its creators skill.

                                            > Despite the usual early morning chill this time of the year, the temperature in the room is at a nice soothing level.

                                            > The soft sound of a newspaper being flipped turns your focus back on the human.

                                            > Anonymous looks to be carefully reading the contents of the tabloid.

                                            > Clearing your throat, you break the silence. He looks up from the paper at you, a questioning gleam reflecting in his eyes.

                                            “Aren’t you going to…”, you ask, pointing at the contents of the table.

                                            > “Oh,” he says, “Sure, but you’re my guest after all. Please, eat,” he finishes, a humble smile on his face

                                            “Aren’t you gonna eat yourself,” you question, still waiting for his reaction.

                                            > He sits up in his chair from his leaned back position. “Sure, but I mean, isn’t it customary to let the guests pick first?”, he asks.

                                            > You quickly shake your head.

                                            “No, you first!”

                                            > He raises an eyebrow in question.

                                            “I mean, it’s always the bringer of the meal’s right to pick their portion first!

                                            > “’Bringer of the meal’?” he asks.

                                            “The cook,” you clarify. “It’s, um, a griffon thing. It is usually the rooster who prepares the meals, so he gets the first share.

                                            > “Rooster? That’s funny, I don’t remember waking up at the crest of dawn, feeling like shouting the head of my neighbor off,” he says.

                                            > This isn’t working out, mayday!

                                            “S-Stallion,” you try again.

                                            > Anonymous leans across the table, his fingers intercrossed, with his chin resting upon his hands. A smirk plays on his lips as his beard brushes against his skin.

                                            > Ancestors, take me home.

                                            “Male, you dweeb!” you squawk indignantly.

                                            > Laughing, he reaches for the plate with the hashbrowns and begins loading a few onto his plate, before retrieving the decanter. You clutch the pan with the beef and mushrooms, with an annoyed huff.

                                            > He moves the decanter against your glass, raising his brows in an unspoken offer.

                                            > You nod in gratitude, grabbing the salt and pepper, as he pours you a glass.

                                            > The two of you dig in, the varieties in taste and texture surprising you.

                                            > After a while, Anonymous pauses his eating, and looks at you. “Tell me, Gilda, what’s the griffonian society like? I’ve spent all of my time among ponies, either here in Ponyville or in Canterlot, but never surrounded by griffons.”

                                            > The question takes you by surprise.

                                            “What would you like to know?” you ask.

                                            > Anonymous ponders for a moment, brushing his chin with his right hand. You’ve noticed he has a habit of doing that.

                                            > “Well, considering my limited knowledge of Equess, how about I ask you some short questions, and you answer them?”

                                            “Sounds… reasonable, you reply.

                                            > “Great”, he says, leaning back as he begins peeling an apple using a small knife. He cuts out a piece of the fruit, eating it with a contemplative look on his face.

                                            > “Hm…” he begins. “What type of rulership do you have in, Griffonstone, right?”

                                            “Yes, a monarchy.”

                                            > “What’s the gender ration like?” he continues, starring at a piece of apple with a sharp look.

                                            “Roughly fifty-fifty, I’d guess,” you shrug.

                                            > “Standard of living?”

                                            “Harsh, but tolerable.”

                                            > He hums in thought. “What’s the ritual of courtship like with you birds?”

                                            “Why do you want to know that?”, you retort.

                                            > “Pure curiosity, really,” he says. “Ponies have the whole herding business going on, along with a gender ratio like a nurse school,” he explains.

                                            “Well…” you begin. “Griffons are monogamous, to an extent. A hen…”, seeing the question on his face, you clarify “…girl griffon, usually prove her worth to a roo- I mean guy – in some way.”

                                            “It can be through physical prowess, fighting the competition, or by her skill at a craft. If a guy sees her as a financially stable mate, and likes what he sees, they hook up, and start a family.

                                            > Nodding in thought, the human eats another piece of fruit. “Sounds a bit like my homeworld, though with a bit less fighting, no offense.”

                                            “None taken,” you say. “What’s your world like, Anonymous?”

                                            > “It is… varied,” he starts. “We come in all shapes, sizes, colours and orientations. Earth, my home world, is not homogenous in the least. We’re the only sapient species on our world too.”

                                            “No griffons in your world?” You ask inquisitively.

                                            > He chuckles, “Nope, sadly they only exist in mythology and superstition.”

                                            > You turn to look down at your plate again, contemplating his answers.

                                            > Your train of thoughts are quickly derailed though.

                                            > “By the way, I met Rainbow on my way to Sugarcube Corner. She confirmed your story. Look..” he begins solemnly, scratching his neck.

                                            > “I’m sorry for the whole manhandling you… and forcing you to help me drag the stag back… and locking you up. Christ, when I recount these things, it makes me sounds awful.”

                                            > You study his face, regret and shame apparent on his features.

                                            “That’s okay, I got a free breakfast out of it, right?” you say with a hint of humor. “It wasn’t that bad either”, you continue, trying to soften the slight awkwardness of the situation.

                                            > Anonymous’ head swivels up and looks you in the eyes.

                                            > “’Not that bad…’” he repeats, an unreadable tone in his voice and a reawakened smirk on his lips.

                                            > “Do you like being held down, Gilda?” he asks nonchalantly, standing up.

                                            > You stare at him.

                                            > “W-what did you say?” you question a breathless whisper.

                                            > He places the knife down on the table, as he moves around the table. His steps careful and elegant. The eyes follow yours, all the way to look down into yours.

                                            > “You heard me, Gilda.” He continues. “How did it feel? For once in your life, you not being the hunter, but rather, the hunted?”

                                            > You’re unpleasantly reminded of the difference in the size of the two of you as he stands besides you. His shape towers over your prone form. His shirt doing little to contain his broad shoulders, and wide arms.

                                            > He draws a heavy breath, expanding his chest.

                                            > WoahMomma.burd

                                            > “Being hunted not only by a fellow predator, but a superior one…” Anonymous says in a low tone, as he moves behind you. Your eyes shift to look straight ahead of you, your muscles tense.

                                            > You feel the soft caress of his hands on your head, gently pampering the feathers. By the ancients, that feels heavenly.

                                            > An involuntary purr escapes you.

                                            > The combination of his earlier words and his gentle fondling of your crest sends waves of mixed emotions through you. You’ve never felt like this before.

                                            > The enticing feeling of bliss and the harrowing feeling of being in mortal danger.

                                            > “I’m willing to be that you’ve never experienced that before, right?”

                                            > You hum in confirmation.

                                            > His hand moves to your shoulders, joined by the other. They begin kneading your joints with firmness and competence.

                                            > Strong digits pressing into your tense flesh, softening it to the touch.

                                            > Circular patterns made by his unyielding thumbs sends thrills of satisfaction through you.

                                            > You sigh and leans back into his hands.

                                            > He chuckles lowly, and moves his lips to your ear.

                                            > “As a matter of fact, I would bet that deep, deep down… You griffons resemble ponies in ways more than you would think...” he murmurs huskily. You notice his musky scent surrounding you, the scent of a adult male in his prime.

                                            > His hands move down your back, finding your wing joints.

                                            >Trailing the contours of your tendons, his hands trace each primary after another.

                                            > “To be honest, I think that some griffons might even enjoy a few of these ways…”

                                            > As he speaks, his right hand squeezes your wings biceps.

                                            > What happens next is the purebred result of thousands of hours of flight and millions of years of evolution. An age-old reaction, powered through the entirety of your body.

                                            > Your instincts kick in hard as your claws grab onto the chair, your hind legs bracing against the padding, with your wing extending in an imaginary attempt to flap itself. A resounding “Chirp!” follows through as well.

                                            > The force of the appendage knocks the human on his ass, clutching his nose as streams of crimson flows into his beard.

                                            > Ancestors, bring me home now…