The Rim and the Hammer (Exalted/Warhammer Quest)

Soon as they had come out of the egg the creatures were as fierce and ravenous as the tales of the barbarians had painted them as. When they weren't screeching for their next meal like a hatchling hawk they were scratching at the door of their stables, putting half-inch marks in steel. Some of the Wyldguard assigned to the tasks were starting to mutter that there might be something to the notion of chaining the beasts down, no matter how majestic their snow white wings or fierce their eyes of molten gold, as Brush of a Thousand Seasons, the would-be poet of this lot, had put is.

There always seemed to be would-be poets in the new batch of Wyldguard, drawn to the romance and the danger of flying out to distant lands and facing strange monsters. The old hands were not sure which officer had decided to put this one on duty mucking out the aerie of the dangerous beast right here in the Morn Towers... but they had to admit it was funny listening to the kid, when he wan''t trying to feed himself to the beasts to prove a point at least.

"For the last time, they aren't any smarter than a bird and they see flaring wings as a threat. It's not that they are waiting for the one with the right feathers to bond with or some other tin scroll-nonsense," Stolen Storm Feather practically roared. "We were just here to make sure the thing gets fed, gets its exercise and damn well wait for the Chosen to tame them in Mela's name."

"The Chosen, the Chosen!" the boy shouted. "How do you think they get to be chosen?"

Oh, one of their lot, Daystar watch over fools for they will not watch out for themselves. The officer sighed, but only to himself, bad for morale otherwise. "You cannot force your fate, the gift of the Dragons will kindle or it will not, best you can do is make your mark on the world with the tools you have to hand lad."

"In times of gravest import, of greatest peril those who are called to sacrifice their lives..."

"Mostly die," Stolen Feather cut him off, the words underscored by the sound of a griffon crunching down on bone. "You don't throw yourself into peril hoping to exalt for the same reason you don't throw yourself into raging rapids hoping the local river god fell in love with you and was just to shy to say so."

The kid mumbled something about the expectations of ancient breeding, but he was quiet.

As soon think the beasts themselves some manner of noble, Stolen Feather shoot his head. There weren't near enough of the people left to for some to rise up over the others eating hothouse dates. Oh sure the official like was that they were all of the nobility of Creation crafted of finest form by the Lawgivers themselves in the days of glory, but no one over the age of twelve took that at face value. Sezekan didn't have nobles for the same reason why there was room to put a pair of raging beasts in the old sky-ship docks with room enough to fit another hundred of them in the cavernous hall.

In the end the Chosen came and they flew with the beasts, swift as an arrow cast from a bow and a hundred times as graceful. One more card in a hand grown far too empty.

Hatching Griffons: 65 + 22 (Martial) = 87

OOC: And with this we are done with the martial actions as well as presenting some of the socio-cultural background of Sezekan.