Monster barely even needs the swift kick of heels from Marcus that comes a split second later, immediately launching off after her sister even quicker than that. She doesn't understand good sportsmanship, and so her enthusiasm is unalloyed from indignance.
She also knows better than to make a sound, even if a screech from her might have been instinctive before her training. There is, however, a surprised and barked laugh from Marcus made barely detectable in the roar of wind from the steep drop.
Talons stretch. He will pull her out of the swoop a moment earlier to make up some distance.
The roar of wind in the ear and the sting of it across the eye nearly steals away that laugh. If he cares to, he might easily convince himself that he's imagined it, or that the sound of objection more than anything else as Buggie's overcast colored wings come unfurling and she shoots out of her nosedive. But why would he do that to himself?
Were he not already buckled in tight, it might serve to throw him hard down into the seat of the saddle. He is still aware of the strain of the buckles, the briefly catching shape of the harness across his hip as they race over the tops of thorny brush, patterned sand rendered into an indistinguishable smear.
A shadow passing overhead—the lighter colored griffon cutting up and over. Buggie, notably delinquent in her behavior, whistles after. Surges up, clawing for that extra elevation with a row of heavy wings as she makes to give chase before Flint can urge her faster along her current trajectory instead.
The noise of wings cutting through dry desert air, the slight predatory cast of a large animal sliding by overhead. Monster's deep croak is quiet enough that Marcus doesn't check her on it, glancing back past his shoulder in an attempt to mark Buggie, barely catching sight of the tops of her wings, the shape Flint makes on her back.
A nudge from him has Monster dipping down to cut her off from gaining ground, to taunt her into a chase that keeps her in the lead. It's clear they've both likely played this game before, either with one another or other siblings, and that Monster plays to win. There's a harsh cut of hot run off wind from her feather span that buffets back against Flint as she slams into forward position.
Marcus is tilted forwards to help the flow of air around them, standing just a little in his stirrups on reflex as if she were a galloping horse, harness straining.
Soon, a large swath of landscape will have passed them by, and then will begin the climb up for altitude.
Conversely, it's instantly evident that Buggie enjoys pursuit more than she has any desire to eke out a lead—indulging in chasing that offered bait despite a brisk curse from her rider. Slashed by that hot gust of Monster's wing, Flint bends low over the saddle's pommel rather than make to stand in the stirrups or twist from that sharp cut air. Urges the griffon nearer and closer in to that shadow of frictionless air that must exist right at the heel of Monster.
It serves to earn them no lead as the paired animals in flight pass rapidly over various washes and the shallow erosion slabs of striped sand. Clipped shadows casting briefly glimpsed shapes. The positioning only saves her energy, and indulges the grey griffon's bad habits of following close and whistling after her sibling, so that may be once some justifiable distance has passed she can be convinced with a pull of the rein and a dig of heels to wing up and out of Monster's slipstream. Streaking up into the wind current and climbing rapidly thanks to the buoyancy generated by the other animal's own lead.
There's a shared and instinctive glance upwards at that sense of a shadow, the sound of wings: Monster's slight head tilt, Marcus twisting enough to clock the grey rise of the other griffon.
A jerk of the reins has Monster peel off a little more sideways, less direct pursuit, although Buggie is already past any benefit from the run-off wind of her wings. The climb for the sky happening above means there is a little time to sift around for some advantage, and the one Marcus finds it not incredible, but something, spying the wide dip in the dunes where heat is gathered like water in a bowl, where the natural rising lip of it, some hundreds of feet across, caught the sunrise early.
Not that Flint would be stopped from curving off, gaining the same benefit, but Monster makes for it like a shot arrow, wings flaring wide to push herself upwards. Her harsh trill is happy (even if it doesn't sound it), barely audible at the edges of Flint's hearing.
Marcus lets her ascend about as high as she wishes, keeping an eye on Flint's progress.
Low in the saddle, leaning across Buggie's shoulder in an effort to keep some eye open toward Marcus' trajectory, he isn't blind to the cut of the white griffon's tack only slow to steer round to chase off on a similar path—his own griffon lazy about adjusting the angle of her wingspan to follow the tug of rein and nudge of heel. With the advantage of height over her sister (even as Monster comes firing upward) breeds a certain snub nosed complacency in the grey griffon that no encouraging click or hiss seems to counter.
What does seem to motivate her, once Monster reaching sufficient height, is winging over and making to drop like a hawk stopping after a field mouse in her sibling's immediate direction. It comes as a nasty surprise to Flint astride her, Buggie's play predatory shriek punctuated with a distinctly blue oath that may or may not be entirely robbed from anyone's hearing by the wind.
At the last moment before she cheerfully slams into Monster—either from instinct or from Flint jerking her short or some combination of the two—Buggie flattens, rolls, and drops the few additional feet. When she comes rowing back up after the other griffon, it's with the intent to carouse after the animal's heel.
The indignant shriek out of Monster (drowning out Marcus' own hissed curse at that sensation that is a predator's shadow dropping in) is decidedly unplayful—or at least, it sounds it, bristling rebuke sparked off hot temper. If there was no rider on her back, there's a strong chance she might wheel around and goad Buggie into a minor aerial slapfight. Or rather, if there was no rider on her back who might anticipate this, as Marcus' mere presence would be unlikely to stop her.
Instead, he is fast to haul in the reins, forcing her head to curl in so that the only real option available is to continue flapping forwards. She grumbles her discontent, talons slashing at the air, but her temper evens out by the time he lets up, reins slackening at the same moment he thumps his heels against her with a hyah, directing her back into that climb.
A glance back checks Buggie's position, and Marcus encourages Monster into a few dips and swerves with the intent to encourage the other griffon's worse instincts as they make for greater altitude, where they can properly glide.
A similar effort of shortening rein is being made on the other griffon, Flint making to lash Buggie's face in tight to her chest and sitting up now very straight in the saddle is some concentrated effort to keep Buggie boxed in between hand, and leg, and seat where she might be less likely to veer off in chase, or commit to any other unprompted aerial gymnastics.
All the effort makes for an admirably straight flying path, considering the buffeting of the air and the temptation of Monster's zigging and zagging; it also checks her pace by a half degree or two, the grey griffon's reduced to heavy wing beats to find her elevation rather than surfing on the rising thermals.
The more direct ascent keeps Monster's lead short for some twenty or fifteen seconds, but in short order the combination of effort and the restriction of her head begins to wear on Buggie. She lapses a length behind. Two. Given the oily feeling left in his stomach from the abrupt dive, Flint finds himself remarkably tolerant to the concept of losing.
Long wing strokes see Monster encouraging her own advance, settling into a more measured rhythm atop the buoyancy of desert air. Flying smoothly, no longer attempting to goad and play as Marcus registers the slight quieting that comes with Buggie falling back. A glance to confirm, and a curl of unapologetic boyhood-adjacent satisfaction for having claimed the lead.
An approving pat to Monster's neck will have to be followed by prompt feeding when they land if it's to be worth any favour in the future.
Up here, there's a period of necessary rest, furious flapping traded for languid gliding. Even if Flint or Buggie are compelled to take a chance on a lead, he doesn't push Monster to meaningfully maintain it, not for the moment. Instead, Marcus tips his focus to bright landscape beneath, the strange scale of everything, the distinct shade and shapes of the Anderfels as compared to a mountainous Free Marches or its ruined coastline, or the fields around Nevarra and Orlais.
It's when they are encroaching on the camp's airspace that he begins some calculation, marking where Flint is in the sky. It will be something of a judgment around when to drop out of a glide and into the inevitable breakneck dive, or how long to maintain that greater altitude for greater effect.
And after his denied count of three, Marcus doesn't chance it, swift to kick Monster into a nosedive.
There, at the top of the sky, Flint marks the shape of the white griffon rolling. The tuck of her white wings, their stain inconsequential at this vantage and under the mid-morning catch of the sun. Marcus, a dark shape nestled there amidst gleaming secondary feathers, the light glancing mirror-like off his armor.
It would be easy to loose Buggie's rein, to give her an encouraging word and drive her down into a matching dive. Sweep rapidly down in over red sand and make their final approach on the Riftwatch picket line at breakneck speed. He can feel the grey griffon eager to follow, to feign down out of the sky. For a split second, Flint twitches after the impulse. Wants to finish this biting after Marcus' heels, in high spirits and blasé to the effect that Riftwatch's Commander and her Captain coming rushing in after a night staling Venatori might have on the assembly.
Instead, he lets Marcus go. Keeps Buggie on a strict rein as her sister falls away and the distance between them rapidly lengthens. The grey griffon is tired. She needs to learn some discipline. Either of these things can be rationalized to explain away their more measured, spiraling descent.
Wings flare, braking their descent, cat paws and bird talons touching the red earth with soft thumps of impact. Rustling feathers as wings are folded back in, Marcus catching his breath from the natural rush of the rapid descent and the limited ability to breathe during, and he doesn't have to twist around to catch the sight of Buggie's grey shape on her slower spiral downwards when he looks up.
The little twinge of disappointment is childish, he knows, and so is therefore cast aside, spirits still high from the chase. The jangle of tack, leather and metal, follows his dismounting once free of the harness, hands setting on the griffon's neck to reward her with a deeper scratch. Even without fresh meat immediately presented to her, the scents and sounds of being somewhere familiar has already eased Monster's temper, shaking her ruff free under his attentions.
Good thing, as he doesn't immediately go to start tending to her, keeping track of Flint's descent to see if he will land near, to give some parting word or order, or avoid being named a cheater.
(Evidently, the company is at least used to Marcus dramatically crashing in on griffon back.)
The grey griffon with its rider all in heat soaking black winds down, down, down, and lands with a heavy thump and spray of soft sand a length from Monster and Marcus. Flint, hand hard, forces her to stand there with the underside of her beak to her feathered chest for a further moment of emphasis. And then the rein gives and Buggie lengthens her neck into the slack, ruffling her feathers from head to wingtips in one last fragment of a temper tantrum. Flint gives her a scratch at the base of her neck anyway, follows it with a pat and then makes to unclip himself from the tack.
Across the curve of her folding wing, a brief glance: Flint's brow lowered against the sun, his attention fixing on Marcus. Crooked line of his mouth, something like the suggestion of a slanting smile flexing there at the corner.
And there Buggie flexes her wing high, and when she's finishes, Flint has slid out of the saddle and ducks now out of the shadow of her wing. A hand catches her rein and draws it free. When Flint steers the grey griffon in the direction of Marcus and Monster, it's to pass those reins into his possession.
"See to them. I'll have word passed in an hour if you're with the riders who go out."
Marcus meets him halfway, drawing around with Monster's lead in hand. She only follows in the curve of her neck, intent to nibble at the top of his boot in nagging reminder of her presence and her needs. It's gentle enough that he allows it to happen, attention locked it on the other man. If there is a cast of a smile to his own expression in return—
Well, it's likely more apparent in the moment Marcus sobers himself from it, subtle as it is. Or maybe it only feels subtle. Maybe the exhilaration of the ride and the playful game of it has stamped itself more plainly on him, but either way, there is some small adjustment, a return to business as usual.
He accepts the second lead, and if he has regret for the news he might be riding out again so soon, or is keen to be a part of the team that finishes the thing begun—well, neither show. He only nods assent.
"Aye, Commander," comes easily, and so does, "I'll appreciate the headstart if so."
"Very good," he says, and if there is a crack to be made about the boyish racing or or anything else, then it fails to materialize. Perhaps the suggestion of the good humor lingers though, visible only in the fine lines of his face and very up close.
Or maybe not. Flint's nod is curt, the heavy lay of his hand reserved for running over Buggie's broad square face between the set of her eyes—smoothing fine feathers and subsequently rewarded with a click of approval from high in the animal's throat.
Then saddlebags are fetched and slung over Flint's shoulder, and he goes. In a little over an hour, word does come running down to Marcus by way of a note that yes, he will be going. Here is his roster of names (none of which include Riftwatch's Commander, who evidently must have more pressing matters to attend to or no desire to fly out again and the luxury of deciding so), and a brief summation of orders and a suggestion of when and how to approach the cavern encampment and the demand to communicate back results by crystal by no later than ———.
They are typically terse instructions, lacking in any winking flourish pencilled in only for the benefit of this particular recipient.
No further comment from Marcus as Flint turns to collect his things and be on his way. An encouraging whistle is met with dual answering chirps and feather rustles as the three move off in the opposite direction.
Seeing to two large beasts is enough to eat up an hour, although he leaves them to their own grooming rather than skip out on tending to himself. Food is eaten fast and only slightly less ravenously than Monster had set upon the scraps of goat that had fed some of the company last night. Shucks off armor, splashes his face and neck clean, changes some pieces of clothing from his pack in his tent, refills his waterskin, all with the expectation of a missive directing him to return to the sky and the cavern. It is not strictly necessary for him to take out the black ring he had stowed away, consider it, and decide to keep it on his person.
He isn't sure how he'd have felt, exactly, had it not. If he'd wondered if it was practical to ensure individuals of Forces aren't overworked, or some kind of favour that he should feel fondness for, or if it would bother him, and prick at pride. One of those things that would work itself like a splinter to be picked at until it finally came loose or disintegrated with time.
And there is no need. The instructions come. He answers by rousting those on the roster, dispensing brisk orders of his own, and soon, after some minutes spent towards readiness, a small flock of griffons take to the sky above the camp, Buggie left to sleep in a catlike curl.
When news comes of a successful incursion, it signals the end of Riftwatch's business in the Anderfels, and by the time the group returns, there will be little time for anything but being what it is they owe to the company, leaving behind only the impressions of tents and campfires to signal they were ever there.
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no subject
She also knows better than to make a sound, even if a screech from her might have been instinctive before her training. There is, however, a surprised and barked laugh from Marcus made barely detectable in the roar of wind from the steep drop.
Talons stretch. He will pull her out of the swoop a moment earlier to make up some distance.
no subject
Were he not already buckled in tight, it might serve to throw him hard down into the seat of the saddle. He is still aware of the strain of the buckles, the briefly catching shape of the harness across his hip as they race over the tops of thorny brush, patterned sand rendered into an indistinguishable smear.
A shadow passing overhead—the lighter colored griffon cutting up and over. Buggie, notably delinquent in her behavior, whistles after. Surges up, clawing for that extra elevation with a row of heavy wings as she makes to give chase before Flint can urge her faster along her current trajectory instead.
no subject
A nudge from him has Monster dipping down to cut her off from gaining ground, to taunt her into a chase that keeps her in the lead. It's clear they've both likely played this game before, either with one another or other siblings, and that Monster plays to win. There's a harsh cut of hot run off wind from her feather span that buffets back against Flint as she slams into forward position.
Marcus is tilted forwards to help the flow of air around them, standing just a little in his stirrups on reflex as if she were a galloping horse, harness straining.
Soon, a large swath of landscape will have passed them by, and then will begin the climb up for altitude.
no subject
It serves to earn them no lead as the paired animals in flight pass rapidly over various washes and the shallow erosion slabs of striped sand. Clipped shadows casting briefly glimpsed shapes. The positioning only saves her energy, and indulges the grey griffon's bad habits of following close and whistling after her sibling, so that may be once some justifiable distance has passed she can be convinced with a pull of the rein and a dig of heels to wing up and out of Monster's slipstream. Streaking up into the wind current and climbing rapidly thanks to the buoyancy generated by the other animal's own lead.
no subject
A jerk of the reins has Monster peel off a little more sideways, less direct pursuit, although Buggie is already past any benefit from the run-off wind of her wings. The climb for the sky happening above means there is a little time to sift around for some advantage, and the one Marcus finds it not incredible, but something, spying the wide dip in the dunes where heat is gathered like water in a bowl, where the natural rising lip of it, some hundreds of feet across, caught the sunrise early.
Not that Flint would be stopped from curving off, gaining the same benefit, but Monster makes for it like a shot arrow, wings flaring wide to push herself upwards. Her harsh trill is happy (even if it doesn't sound it), barely audible at the edges of Flint's hearing.
Marcus lets her ascend about as high as she wishes, keeping an eye on Flint's progress.
no subject
What does seem to motivate her, once Monster reaching sufficient height, is winging over and making to drop like a hawk stopping after a field mouse in her sibling's immediate direction. It comes as a nasty surprise to Flint astride her, Buggie's play predatory shriek punctuated with a distinctly blue oath that may or may not be entirely robbed from anyone's hearing by the wind.
At the last moment before she cheerfully slams into Monster—either from instinct or from Flint jerking her short or some combination of the two—Buggie flattens, rolls, and drops the few additional feet. When she comes rowing back up after the other griffon, it's with the intent to carouse after the animal's heel.
no subject
Instead, he is fast to haul in the reins, forcing her head to curl in so that the only real option available is to continue flapping forwards. She grumbles her discontent, talons slashing at the air, but her temper evens out by the time he lets up, reins slackening at the same moment he thumps his heels against her with a hyah, directing her back into that climb.
A glance back checks Buggie's position, and Marcus encourages Monster into a few dips and swerves with the intent to encourage the other griffon's worse instincts as they make for greater altitude, where they can properly glide.
no subject
All the effort makes for an admirably straight flying path, considering the buffeting of the air and the temptation of Monster's zigging and zagging; it also checks her pace by a half degree or two, the grey griffon's reduced to heavy wing beats to find her elevation rather than surfing on the rising thermals.
The more direct ascent keeps Monster's lead short for some twenty or fifteen seconds, but in short order the combination of effort and the restriction of her head begins to wear on Buggie. She lapses a length behind. Two. Given the oily feeling left in his stomach from the abrupt dive, Flint finds himself remarkably tolerant to the concept of losing.
no subject
An approving pat to Monster's neck will have to be followed by prompt feeding when they land if it's to be worth any favour in the future.
Up here, there's a period of necessary rest, furious flapping traded for languid gliding. Even if Flint or Buggie are compelled to take a chance on a lead, he doesn't push Monster to meaningfully maintain it, not for the moment. Instead, Marcus tips his focus to bright landscape beneath, the strange scale of everything, the distinct shade and shapes of the Anderfels as compared to a mountainous Free Marches or its ruined coastline, or the fields around Nevarra and Orlais.
It's when they are encroaching on the camp's airspace that he begins some calculation, marking where Flint is in the sky. It will be something of a judgment around when to drop out of a glide and into the inevitable breakneck dive, or how long to maintain that greater altitude for greater effect.
And after his denied count of three, Marcus doesn't chance it, swift to kick Monster into a nosedive.
no subject
It would be easy to loose Buggie's rein, to give her an encouraging word and drive her down into a matching dive. Sweep rapidly down in over red sand and make their final approach on the Riftwatch picket line at breakneck speed. He can feel the grey griffon eager to follow, to feign down out of the sky. For a split second, Flint twitches after the impulse. Wants to finish this biting after Marcus' heels, in high spirits and blasé to the effect that Riftwatch's Commander and her Captain coming rushing in after a night staling Venatori might have on the assembly.
Instead, he lets Marcus go. Keeps Buggie on a strict rein as her sister falls away and the distance between them rapidly lengthens. The grey griffon is tired. She needs to learn some discipline. Either of these things can be rationalized to explain away their more measured, spiraling descent.
no subject
The little twinge of disappointment is childish, he knows, and so is therefore cast aside, spirits still high from the chase. The jangle of tack, leather and metal, follows his dismounting once free of the harness, hands setting on the griffon's neck to reward her with a deeper scratch. Even without fresh meat immediately presented to her, the scents and sounds of being somewhere familiar has already eased Monster's temper, shaking her ruff free under his attentions.
Good thing, as he doesn't immediately go to start tending to her, keeping track of Flint's descent to see if he will land near, to give some parting word or order, or avoid being named a cheater.
(Evidently, the company is at least used to Marcus dramatically crashing in on griffon back.)
no subject
Across the curve of her folding wing, a brief glance: Flint's brow lowered against the sun, his attention fixing on Marcus. Crooked line of his mouth, something like the suggestion of a slanting smile flexing there at the corner.
And there Buggie flexes her wing high, and when she's finishes, Flint has slid out of the saddle and ducks now out of the shadow of her wing. A hand catches her rein and draws it free. When Flint steers the grey griffon in the direction of Marcus and Monster, it's to pass those reins into his possession.
"See to them. I'll have word passed in an hour if you're with the riders who go out."
no subject
Well, it's likely more apparent in the moment Marcus sobers himself from it, subtle as it is. Or maybe it only feels subtle. Maybe the exhilaration of the ride and the playful game of it has stamped itself more plainly on him, but either way, there is some small adjustment, a return to business as usual.
He accepts the second lead, and if he has regret for the news he might be riding out again so soon, or is keen to be a part of the team that finishes the thing begun—well, neither show. He only nods assent.
"Aye, Commander," comes easily, and so does, "I'll appreciate the headstart if so."
no subject
Or maybe not. Flint's nod is curt, the heavy lay of his hand reserved for running over Buggie's broad square face between the set of her eyes—smoothing fine feathers and subsequently rewarded with a click of approval from high in the animal's throat.
Then saddlebags are fetched and slung over Flint's shoulder, and he goes. In a little over an hour, word does come running down to Marcus by way of a note that yes, he will be going. Here is his roster of names (none of which include Riftwatch's Commander, who evidently must have more pressing matters to attend to or no desire to fly out again and the luxury of deciding so), and a brief summation of orders and a suggestion of when and how to approach the cavern encampment and the demand to communicate back results by crystal by no later than ———.
They are typically terse instructions, lacking in any winking flourish pencilled in only for the benefit of this particular recipient.
no subject
Seeing to two large beasts is enough to eat up an hour, although he leaves them to their own grooming rather than skip out on tending to himself. Food is eaten fast and only slightly less ravenously than Monster had set upon the scraps of goat that had fed some of the company last night. Shucks off armor, splashes his face and neck clean, changes some pieces of clothing from his pack in his tent, refills his waterskin, all with the expectation of a missive directing him to return to the sky and the cavern. It is not strictly necessary for him to take out the black ring he had stowed away, consider it, and decide to keep it on his person.
He isn't sure how he'd have felt, exactly, had it not. If he'd wondered if it was practical to ensure individuals of Forces aren't overworked, or some kind of favour that he should feel fondness for, or if it would bother him, and prick at pride. One of those things that would work itself like a splinter to be picked at until it finally came loose or disintegrated with time.
And there is no need. The instructions come. He answers by rousting those on the roster, dispensing brisk orders of his own, and soon, after some minutes spent towards readiness, a small flock of griffons take to the sky above the camp, Buggie left to sleep in a catlike curl.
When news comes of a successful incursion, it signals the end of Riftwatch's business in the Anderfels, and by the time the group returns, there will be little time for anything but being what it is they owe to the company, leaving behind only the impressions of tents and campfires to signal they were ever there.