Another year, another storm.

Skarinath had seen plenty of storms in his years. A strong and cool-headed flier, the golden eagle-gryphon had even flown through his share. He knew his limits, knew when it was time to give in and seek shelter, knew when he could in fact push on in spite of the weather and be confident of still landing safely.

More importantly, though, he also knew when he didn’t need to push it. The last time he’d flown this route in a storm, lives had rested on how quickly he made the trip, and with the particular storm that had been coming up behind him, he’d had every reason to believe that if he’d taken to the ground, he’d have lost days.

This time, not only did it look like a quick – if nasty – squall bearing down on him, all the things in his courier pack were routine. The winds weren’t yet nasty enough to force him down immediately, but he was keeping an eye out for a place he could shelter in relative comfort.

And what he saw ahead of him now looked like a fair candidate. A roadside inn by the look of it, a big building with a stableyard larger than any single farm could need – and just up the road a bit, a cluster of rocks that the road wove around. If he couldn’t stay in the stables – if there were nervous horses there, say – he’d at least have some shelter nearby from the wind’s worst.

Landing was always the trickiest part of flying, and that was all the more so in weather like this. A gust at the wrong time could be a serious problem – gryphons had broken their legs, wings, or even their necks to the like, which was why anyone teaching younglings to fly just taught them not to risk a storm at all, to land as soon as the weather looked like it might get that bad. Storm-runners were a reckless lot, and in his heart Skar knew he was no exception.

But he did try to lower those risks where he could. And the simplest way to avoid getting caught by a gust when flying too close to the ground to react to it, was to spend as little time as possible actually flying that low. Falling was another matter altogether.

He swung a bit to the side, until the wind was coming right along the curve of the road, and then he turned right into it and went into a dive – steep at first, but levelling out well short of the ground, wings flaring to let the wind take his speed away. Legs poised to run, he let himself stall a few bodylengths above the cobbled road, and then he yanked his wings right in close.

Gravity held him in its relentless, dizzying grip for a few moments, and then his feet hit the cobbles. It was a bone-jarring impact, but it was one he was ready for, shoving forward the moment he made contact, redirecting much of his downward motion forward. A few more bodylengths later, he ran out of cobblestones and lurched to a halt in sticky mud, but by that point he’d already shed most of his speed; it was an uncomfortable jerk but not enough to do him harm. He got back onto the cobbles, shook off the worst of the muck, and ran up the lane towards the door.

The Burning Aspen, read the sign over the door. It looked to have been made with love and care, the letters elaborate but clear, the image of a tree with little flames for leaves quite artistic. It was hard to be sure over the wind and rain, but it didn’t sound all that busy inside. Skar sat up on his haunches, leaned against the doorframe with one forefoot, and pounded on the door a few times with the other. He was just about to try again when someone lifted the latch.

It was hard to say which of them was more surprised by what waited across the threshold. Skar was expecting a human, but in the northeast of Highmoor one could also find vahni, just across the border from Kurgan where they made up most of the people. It was a vahn who opened the door, a slight fellow about five and a half feet tall – Skar had met enough vahni to know him for male by the frilled crest on his salamander-like head, a feature their females didn’t have at all, but it wasn’t nearly as prominent as on most of those he’d dealt with; by that Skar figured him for a youngling. His fine-scaled hide was deep blue, save for the fins on that spiny frill and the webbing on his hands, where it paled to near white; he wore a simple apron of undyed leather, such as would not be out of place in any tavern in Highmoor, but the colourful wood-and-shell pectoral hanging from his neck and the bronze torc around his right upper arm were both very much Kurganite styles.

Young or no, he looked like a lithe, healthy specimen, though Skar hadn’t spent enough time among vahni to be sure of it by their standards. The gryphon’s gaze drifted a bit further down, taking in both the shining hardwood floor the vahn stood on and the simple trousers he wore. A sinuous, tapering tail flicked into view, a pale fin running along its topside much like that atop his head, aside from not sticking out nearly so far; his feet, clad in simple sandles, were webbed – and clawed – even more prominently than his hands.

You don’t even know who this fellow is, never mind if he’s of age. Stop ogling, Skar told himself, and turned his head and his attention back upwards, in time to see the vahn’s eyes widening, frill standing upright; he took a step back in apparent surprise. “Shards of the First,” he breathed – if he was born Moorfolk, Skar would think his tone impressed, but the one time he’d gone into Kurgan, that same time he’d flown the storm up this way, he’d been more focused on bringing medicine to the locals than getting to know how they spoke. And both his jewelry and that exclamation were distinctly Kurganite rather than Moorish.

It dawned on Skar that the vahn’s own gaze was fixed downward, and that in turn reminded him that especially being wet as he was, he must have been giving the poor fellow quite an eyeful. He shuffled his hindquarters back a bit, giving himself enough space to drop down, and cleared his throat. The vahn had spoken Moorish with a local accent rather than a Kurganite one, so Skar shouldn’t have too much difficulty making himself understood, but gryphons’ beaks gave them a bit of trouble with a few of the sounds if they weren’t careful, and the ever-intensifying rainfall could make that worse. “Forgive the racket,” he began, “but this storm blew in very suddenly. I was wondering—”

“Who is it, Kadrin?” asked another, deeper voice, this one bearing just a bit of a Kurganite trill.

“A gryphon, Keshar, seeking shelter from the storm,” the young vahn said over his shoulder. “He has a courier’s bag.”

The other speaker moved into view from a back room. That was more what Skar was used to seeing of male vahni – six feet and a bit tall, not counting a frill that was quite a bit longer and more pronounced than that of the one at the door and had spines that were even longer, the new arrival was solid and muscular, draped in colourful cloth and quite a bit more jewelry, including some silver and even gold. His hide was patterned in vibrant blues and blue-greens, and a pair of gently curling horns grew from his brows. Where the smaller one’s – Kadrin’s – gaze had been shocked, this one just looked a touch suspicious of the arrival on the doorstep, though he too focused on Skar’s messenger bag. It bore no Legion insignia – not anymore – but the same style of bag was used by gryphons throughout Highmoor, in the Legions or not.

Then Keshar’s gaze sharpened, though his head dipped slightly, his frill flattening against his head and neck. “The look about you… Pardon my presumption, but are you Skarinath?”

The gryphon blinked. He had not been expecting that introductions might be redundant. “I am. But how—”

“Ah. Please forgive us for not having a warmer welcome ready, but it is not often we have winged visitors here, never mind the one who saved so many from the Red Rot.” He clapped his hands. “Do not leave our guest standing there, Kadrin. See him settled in the back stables; I will make arrangements to keep the beasts in the front well away from there.”

Kadrin dipped his head. “Of course, Keshar. This way, please, honoured one.” He gestured around the side of the building, towards the stableyard, and when a bemused Skar stepped back and turned that way, the vahn slipped outside and pulled the door shut behind himself. A quick gesture conjured up a brilliant blue light over his palm, shining on the cobbles that the cloud-dimmed, setting sun was quickly turning inadequate to illuminate; with that guide, Kadrin hurried along.

The building storm made casual conversation out of the question, both because of the noise and because Kadrin was hustling along at a good pace. He didn’t seem all that uncomfortable in the rain – in fact, the way his body and tail undulated almost made him look like he was swimming through it – and Skar was just about to say there was no need to rush on his account when his host took hold of a big handle and hauled the door open, sliding along a track which, given that he didn’t have to put too much weight into the motion, was evidently well-tended.

He waved Skar through, and after taking a step back to shake off the worst of the water and mud, the gryphon was only too happy to comply. It was a blessed relief to not have the rain drumming on his fur and feathers. A few seconds later, the door thumped against the frame, and for further relief, the sound of the storm was muted to a surprising degree; that door must have been heavier than Kadrin had made it look.

At first the interior was rather dark, lit only by glazed windows above and the insufficient light from outside; but there were silver-backed lanterns hung from the support pillars, holding not oil or candles, but quartz stones, and when Kadrin touched his light to one, it came to rest there and glowed brighter. He moved onto the next and kindled a new light for it, and on down the row. They revealed an ample space – this must have once been where wagons came to rest, though it would’ve been a bit narrow for more than one or two of them now, the space instead converted to wide stalls.

“I have been meaning to turn this section into more of a proper place for gryphons to spend the night,” Kadrin said, grabbing a broom from a rack and rushing ahead to one of those stalls, “but there is always something in urgent need of mending, so it’s been hard to arrange the work. My humble apologies, but what comfort I can offer you here at the Burning Aspen is yours.”

“Truly, it’s fine. I think you’re selling it short, and honestly, I’m happier than I can say just to have a roof over my head right now,” Skar assured him, staying out in the aisle to give the man room to work. A curious fellow, this; obviously he had a spark of magic and decent command of it, to use it so casually for lights, yet here he was working at an inn, so it couldn’t have been too strong…Then the way Kadrin had said all that struck the gryphon, and he tilted his head. “‘I’? If you’ll forgive me for saying so, I got the impression that, well…”

“That Keshar owns the place?” A chittering sound followed that sounded much like a laugh, and given the context, probably was. “Please forgive him. His instincts tell him to take charge; sometimes, in the moment, he forgets that I was out of the shell years before him, and have kept the Burning Aspen running well enough for as many years.” He emerged from the stall and went on, “All we have for bedding is straw, but I’ve laid some down fresh. If you’ll excuse me for a time, I should check the fires. And the kitchen. Flying in this weather, you must be hungry?”

“Well, yes,” Skar admitted. Actually the prospect of food made his feathers rouse and his stomach rumble; by his toothy smile, that didn’t escape the vahn’s notice. “And straw is just fine. I can pay—”

“Oh, no. I wouldn’t dream of it – not for you of all couriers, at least not this time. Please, make yourself as comfortable as you may.” And before Skar could stammer another reply, Kadrin was gone – not out the big sliding door, but a man-sized swinging door on the opposite side of the stable, from which the scent of actual horses faintly wafted.

More bemused than ever, Skar peered into the stall Kadrin had been sweeping out. More of those mage-lamps flanked the door; these ones had simple shutters, simple enough that even a gryphon’s limited dexterity could manage them. They lit a space that was not just reasonably open, but downright spacious – these walls had obviously been laid down to divide the space with an eye to a gryphon’s proportions, not a horse’s. One entire wall of it was brick, radiating heat from a fire on the other side, and the statement that the bedding was just straw turned out to be selling it short: yes, it was probably straw, and fresh straw at that, with a few more small bales of it stacked in one corner, but that which was laid down as a nest was under a patterned blanket that would handily keep any individual straws from sticking to his fur or feathers.

It also looked nice enough that getting mud all over it would be a shame. But there was loose straw on the floor as well, not just the nest. There was even a pile where Kadrin must have put the old straw.

First things first, Skar pawed at his harness. It was cleverly made so a gryphon’s not-so-nimble talons could handle it, but it did still take him a few moments to get the clasps open and wriggle out of the straps, leaving the harness – and his courier bag – in as neat a pile next to the nest as he could manage. That done, he plucked one of the bales off the stack, bit through the twine binding it, and set to rubbing the mud off against it.

He’d gotten the worst of it off and was tugging some of the grimy dregs of it free when the door opened again, and the scent of spices and meat drifted through it. Venison, fresh venison, seared just enough to add some flavour. Presently, Kadrin appeared at the stall door, a big ceramic serving-bowl held up on one shoulder and some plain, unbleached linen cloths slung over the other arm, which in turn was also carrying a bucket. “Ah! I should be happy to get that out of your way once you’re done, honoured one,” he said, setting the bucket down next to the fire-backed bricks and the bowl by the edge of the nest; it was simple fare in there, just chunks of meat lightly tossed with spices and briefly introduced to a hot pan, and it looked – and smelled; gryphons, unlike their raptor forebears, had a sense of smell worth mentioning – simply lovely, but for the moment Skar turned his attention back to his host.

Just in time to see him duck his head, his frill spreading, fluttering a moment, then flattening. “I-i-if you’d wish,” he said, swallowed, and went on more steadily, “if it wouldn’t be, ah, inappropriate, I would also be pleased to help you be clean and dry.”

“A roof, a bed, a fire, a meal, and a grooming?” Skar’s ears flushed and furled back; a courier like him, however daring, was not used to being given a hero’s welcome. The ex-Legionnaire in him, wary of excessive praise as a prelude to some nasty news, wrestled with his pride and vanity. For the most part, caution was losing, but it was still holding on. “I feel like you’re giving me a bit too much credit. It’s not as though I made the medicine, or even administered it.”

“No,” Kadrin granted, “but you worked yourself to collapse to bring it to us, even though we were not your people then. I would probably have caught the Rot in time—and our healers had all but given up on Keshar. Would have given up already, if not for the word that help was coming. Overbearing though he may be sometimes, he is my brother, and I love him. In his eyes, the very ground you walk on is blessed – the more so as a creature who doesn’t spend his whole life on the ground – and I will not be the one to say he is wrong.” He dropped to one knee, head bowed. “Our hospitality is all we can offer against so heavy a debt, but I beg you, please accept it.”

Skar hadn’t blushed this much since the first day another male had called him attractive. And made good on it. Feathers might hide much of it, but especially on the inside of his ears, pinned back though they might be, some of it had to be showing through. “Please, don’t – I mean, you can – oh, fewmets.” Deep breath. It wasn’t like he could claim it hadn’t been a big deal when this fellow knew how hard he’d pushed to get to the heart of the disease outbreak as quickly as he possibly could, but there had to be some way to bring this down to a more… equitable discussion. “If it would please you, I’m not going to turn down a grooming, but maybe you could teach me a bit about vahni while you’re doing it? Obviously I met some when I was in Kurgan, and I’ve crossed paths with a few in this part of Highmoor, but I barely know enough to tell male from female. I wouldn’t have thought you were the elder brother, for instance.”

“Ah! You want to know about us physically. That I can tell you.” Kadrin stood up, which at least eased some of the awkwardness Skar was feeling, and went over to the bucket, dipping one of the cloths into it and wringing it out. “If you wish to know about our culture, Keshar stayed in Kurgan for longer than I did, and has spent a good deal of his time back there even since taking up residence here – he is a lapidary in Greyfell, just a half-day’s ride north.”

“You’ve both done well for yourselves in Highmoor,” Skar observed, moving to stand next to the bricks. After the cold, wind-driven rain outside, the warmth was as a gift from the gods themselves; between that and the chance to get the rest of the mud out rather than spoil the blanket with it, delaying the meal he’d been offered was all right.

“I had… some compelling reasons to seek a new life here,” Kadrin said, and let out a long, hissy sigh. “But for the thing that confused you…” Leaning forward, he started applying the cloth briskly to Skar’s mud-speckled, avian foreleg; that water, too, was already blessedly warm. “I am a man grown, as vahni know it; the differences we go through are not all that different from those of humans, though I don’t know about your kind in particular…”

“Fairly similar, in the broad strokes.” It hadn’t taken his host long to get that leg clean; he shifted his weight onto it and lifted up the other foreleg.

“Ah. But the first male – only the first male in a family unit to claim a female and sire a clutch goes through some additional changes, and that is something Keshar has always been more interested in than I am.”

Aha. The gryphon had heard some mention of hostile attitudes toward such in other countries. He tilted his head. “But you live here, and he lives in the city. Unless occasional visits are enough to keep those changes at bay… I’m guessing he’s a lot more interested.”

Another chittering laugh. “Just so.”

“And I’m also guessing that has to do with your reasons to start over in Highmoor?”

There was no laugh this time; just a weighty pause. But the response was, again, “Just so.” The bucket sloshed as Kadrin shifted it towards his guest’s hindquarters; the cloth swiped a few times over Skar’s chest-feathers, carefully going with the grain, wiping off whatever specks of mud might have spattered them. “Keshar suggested it; he had done some trading with the folk of Highmoor by then, and knew it was a friendlier place for such a life. But the Rot delayed everything.”

That had to have been a special kind of hell. Surrounded by people who would condemn as unnatural the very things your own heart most yearned for… “It was scary enough for me just trying to figure out what manner of company I fancied, and I knew the whole time that whatever answer I found, it would be accepted.” More or less, though in some of the details he himself had never quite dared reveal to anyone, he felt a deep kinship with this stranger. “What you must have gone through – I’m…” Sorry didn’t feel quite right; it wasn’t as though Skar had been in any way involved, and the vahn was well out of that situation by now, wasn’t he? “I’m glad you’ve come to a place that’s more understanding.”

“So am I,” Kadrin said, and started rubbing Skar’s right hindleg. Covered in fur as it was, it took rather more effort than the forelegs had, but the vahn was leaning right into it; Skar just did his best to keep still and prayed that the mud hadn’t gone too far up his leg. He had a healthy appreciation for gryphon anatomy, especially male, and in part because of, rather than in spite of, how unruly it could be; but he wasn’t going to assume such a fondness of everyone he met.

“Some of our family… did not understand, when they learned the truth,” the vahn went on. “But Keshar was always there for me. He might call me a degenerate now and then—”

Skar bristled. That didn’t sound much like loyalty…

“—but only to tease me. Always with love in his voice, never when I am on hard times, and never, never when anyone is around who might overhear and think him serious. In truth I think he is very glad as well that I have done well here, where people are more accepting, but a patriarch’s instincts make it hard for him to say so openly. He has promised to make me bonding-bands, should I ever find someone I wish to be so close to, and to stand in my wedding circle as I was in his; and by those I know he doesn’t really disapprove. He probably says that sort of thing as much to mock those who think it true.”

…all right, maybe he owed the fancier vahn a mental apology.

Just as the scrubbing was getting high enough that he wondered if he ought to say something about how sensitive to touch gryphons could be, and merlins in particular, it stopped. A wadded up, muddy bundle of cloth flew into his view and landed with a wet splat next to the discarded straw, and a quick, gentler rub followed, apparently to get most of the water out of his fur, before Kadrin stood with bucket in hand. “Ah, forgive me for rambling on like that,” he said, walking around in front of Skar to the gryphon’s other side. “I must be boring you.”

“No, not at all,” he assured the vahn. “Though, you know, I’m not a horse; I won’t get nervous and kick if you go behind me.”

Kadrin stopped in mid-stride, head tilting, and looked down at his feet as though surprised to find them there. “Ah! I did go around front, didn’t I? Sorry, sorry. Habit, nothing more.” He crouched down again to work on Skar’s other hindleg.

The fellow was stronger than he looked. Well, okay, the gryphon could have known that by just how much stuff he’d brought in at one time, but the force he was putting into that rubbing was really driving it home. He might own the inn now, but he’d obviously done the stable-work in his own time, and got plenty of mud out of plenty of coats.

“There is one thing I’m curious about,” Skar began, and when his host made a questioning noise, he went on. “If your brother was so sick when I brought that medicine, how is he the one that recognized me? It’s not like I have an eye-catching pattern.” He shook a bit of lingering moisture off his wings, and held them up slightly unfurled so his feathers – perhaps not completely uniform, but with subtle enough variation that even he wouldn’t swear it was anything more than just how the light happened to be landing on them – could dry a little better.

“Hrrrr. I was… distracted.” Kadrin sat back up straight, tossing another wadded-up cloth onto the pile. “That seems to be the worst of it. There’s no need to keep standing there, hmm? Be comfortable, and if it pleases you, eat.”

“Oh, I rather think it will please me,” Skar rumbled. The meat in that bowl had been a very tantalizing presence, and he was only too happy to get settled in that nest now that he wasn’t going to get it filthy. The bowl was plenty wide enough for him to just dip his head in and grab a piece – a bit smaller than would normally make a mouthful, but he’d rather that than just a bit too big to be comfortable.

It had smelled just fine, and it tasted even better. That little bit of crisping lent it flavour that he didn’t often get the chance to appreciate, and helped seal in the spices a tiny bit. He swallowed. “And I was right,” he said, shifting to make room as Kadrin moved in with a curry-comb. “It isn’t often that anyone bothers to cook gryphon-food even a little. I’m as glad for it as I am that it isn’t overdone.”

“I have tried to learn what appeals to gryphons’ tastes,” Kadrin replied, pressing the comb against Skar’s side, easing under the feathers to get at just a bit more fur, and rubbing in smooth circles.

“Ahhh. It’s working,” Skar observed as the nubs pushed through his fur and teased the skin beneath. A gryphon’s fur might not be quite the same as a horse’s coat, but some of the same tools worked just fine if someone was willing and able to put them to use.

“I haven’t had a chance to learn how best to care for your feathers yet,” the vahn went on apologetically. “We get few of your race up this way – I hope that by making a place that’s hospitable to you, I might do my part to change that. But that does come back to your question. I know more or less how many couriers fly this circuit, and I have met most of them by now, as they’ve delivered this and that. None of the others I’ve met are unmarked gold, and Keshar had heard in the city that you do still fly this circuit, so…” He’d curried his way along to Skar’s rump; now he swapped for a brush, short strokes of it along the grain of the fur, tugging free dirt and loose hairs alike. “I might have guessed it, myself, but – there you were, right in front of me. I’ve always thought yours a beautiful race, but mostly I see you from afar – it’s easy to forget how big you really are! It was… an impressive sight, to find on my doorstep so suddenly.”

“Ahhhh, you flatter me,” said the gryphon, though he could hear a bit of an appreciative purr in his own voice. Friendly contact, good food, and praise of his appearance were all things he wasn’t likely to turn down anytime soon. “Rain-soaked and splashed with mud, I could not have been at my best. But if you’re going to put me in a better state to admire, I’m not going to stop you.”

And at least the fellow hadn’t been repulsed by some of the details Skar’s reared-up stance and soaked fur would have emphasized. Most Moorfolk accepted that gryphons couldn’t manage clothing, but some were a bit bashful about it, especially up here where gryphons were uncommon and migrants from less-gryphon-acclimatized Kurgan were better-known – and even a good number of the rest wouldn’t want a faceful of sheath courtesy of a stranger showing up on their doorstep.

Well, at least this vahn wasn’t terribly sensitive in that respect. If he’d known what kind of a rub-down he’d have been in for, Skar would have hated to have missed out on it. He let out a long, contented sigh and stretched out his hindleg as the brush worked down along it. “The thicker coat compared to horses doesn’t seem to be giving you any trouble,” he observed. “If I can convince a groomer to pay you a visit with some extra tools, I imagine you’ll be making gryphons feel like visiting royalty soon enough!” He snatched up another gobbet of meat.

“A visit?” Another chitter-laugh; Kadrin gave a few more quick strokes over Skar’s hindpaw, then rose, walking around to the other side, trailing his hand over the gryphon’s rump in the process. It was very much a horse-groomer’s habit, much like the more time-consuming approach of crossing in front, but it wasn’t like Skar was going to complain about the contact… “If my plan bears fruit, I’ll want to hire on at least one! I might like to keep my hand in now and then, but the owner can’t be rushing off to tend to every guest on a busy night!”

“Only the really special ones, hrrr?” The words were out of Skar’s beak before he could stop himself. That might have been going a little too far, but the thought just conjured up such delightful mental images, and the hand on his flank wasn’t doing anything to dispel them. He tried to distract himself with another bite of meat.

“Hrrrrr.” It wasn’t quite the same sound as Skar had just made – less of a purr, more of a trill – but was really remarkably similar. “I should be so lucky as to have that special a visitor, now and then.” That hand stayed where it was, just forward of the gryphon’s rump, and even got a little more weight on it as the vahn started brushing with his other hand.

Hang on, did he just—? Skar blinked, running through the exchange again in his mind. It sounded an awful lot like this fellow had just said he’d enjoy a… a conjugal visit from a gryphon lover, didn’t it? Well, now! The talk had been rather solidly on gryphon visitors, it wasn’t as though it was a great leap of logic – in fact, it’d be a bit strained to apply it to anything else!

Suddenly very aware of fine cloth against sensitive skin, Skar turned his head to look directly at his host. The vahn’s frill was standing up, the tip of his tail darting about as he swiftly brushed the gryphon’s flank; Skar would have guessed him agitated, but maybe it was a different sort of worked up?

Being polite to one’s hosts was all very well, but Skar hadn’t got to where he was in life by being timid. He took a deep breath for courage, swallowed, and didn’t quite keep himself from clicking his beak, but forged on anyway. “Well, if that thought appeals to you, maybe I don’t need to keep quite so carefully belly-down, hrrrr?”

Kadrin’s brush hand froze mid-stroke. His frill stood a bit taller still, fluttering; his eyes drifted lower, down to Skar’s haunch. There was no way he could see anything from where he was — but the very fact that he’d looked was pretty telling, wasn’t it?

Then he stiffened, frill flattening. “Urrrrh.” He swallowed hard, looked up, and started somewhat when he saw Skar already looking back at him; he ducked his head. “Sh-should I… should I stop?”

The poor fellow sounded scared half to death. And no wonder — most two-legged Moorfolk didn’t much enjoy being worked up by someone they hadn’t already invited to do just that, and Skar couldn’t imagine attitudes towards it were any warmer in Kurgan. Hopefully the gryphon could set him at ease – and maybe, just maybe, keep him from talking himself out of something it seemed he actually did want to do.

It’d probably work best if he avoided his usual teasing banter, though, at least until they understood one another. What he said was, “Only if you don’t want to keep going. I’m feeling fine, and more would be fine, too – I’m curious, you’re appealing, and I don’t have anything or anyone else pushing me to say no.”

Kadrin looked up, frill lifting partway. “You — you really think I’m…?”

“I really do,” Skar assured him. “Gryphons see plenty of things that people think are otherwise private, and I, well, I’ve been a bit curious about it for some years now. Wondering if I and a biped could make it work. You in particular – you’re different than I’m used to, yes, that’s part of it. A new experience is something I haven’t been shy of since I was a fledgling. But you also just look good. Not nearly so much dead weight as I’m lugging around!”

That shook Kadrin out of his stasis and into another laugh. “None of this,” he said, hand sliding along Skar’s haunch, “feels anything less than powerful. I will admit, though — that first look has been hard to push out of mind!”

“Really, now?” Skar did some mental re-evaluating of the vahn’s initial response to him. If he had in fact been relishing that wet, mud-spattered glimpse…! “Here, shift over a bit. I think I can give you a better image to replace that one!” Kadrin obligingly leaned out of the way, so, before Skar could think better of it and tense up, he shifted a bit to the left, tucked his right wing in close, and rolled over.

The blanket had kept the actual straw away from his bare, sensitive flesh, but still, the open air felt quite a bit better against it. And the wide-eyed reaction, one hand raised in an aborted reaching-forward gesture of obvious yearning, was so gratifying. “Go on,” Skar urged. “I’ve wondered for years what an actual hand would feel like there.”

The vahn hesitated for just a moment, tongue flicking out briefly. Then he drew a breath, and — oh, stars, he was doing it, he was really doing it —

Skar had expected it to be different than the touch of a tongue, and it was. He hadn’t expected just how completely a biped’s hand could wrap around his member, how firmly it could squeeze. It wasn’t at all like mounting someone, either; it was intense, so strong that it was all Skar could do to keep from thrashing, and he couldn’t hold in a surprised yip at the same time. He couldn’t even make sense of what Kadrin was doing to him – every stroke, every squeeze, sent a fresh jolt up his spine. He barely had time to form the thought that he wouldn’t last long before an especially strong surge of pleasure made him shove into Kadrin’s grip, panting hard, the rich smell of his own semen slamming into his senses.

It hadn’t taken him long to conclude that hands could be very, very nice.

With the initial need of a few days’ abstinence slaked, he could appreciate the gentler touch he was subject to now, fingertips tracing the outline of his tapering length. It probably didn’t hurt that those fingers were now moving wetly, slickly over his skin, lubricated by the selfsame seed they’d coaxed forth.

That he was still fondling Skar was at least something of a good sign that he might not get the wrong idea, but maybe it’d be best to be sure. In a moment, anyway; that touch was too fine a sensation for him to cut short. For the time being, Skar just tried to rock in counterpoint to his new friend’s stroking, hoped that would be message enough that he wanted to continue, and cracked his eyes open to gauge the reaction.

Vahni features might not have been very familiar to him, but they were descended from predator stock, as were both of the creatures that had been combined to make gryphons, and apparently that was enough for some signals to carry over. The intense focus was plain as day in Kadrin’s features, a yearning want that bordered on physical hunger; his tongue poked out one side of his mouth, then drew back in as he glanced up and saw Skar looking at him. His eyes widened for a moment, frill fluttering. “That was… shorter than I expected,” he confessed, “but such a delight. Thank you.”

“It was shorter than I expected, and I’m used to how my body works,” Skar replied. A chittering laugh worked its way out of him. “But don’t thank me yet, I’m barely getting started!”

“Ah!” That frill stood high and fluttered a little more; Kadrin flashed a toothy grin. “I suppose part of me is used to humans. With them–”

“I would be done after that. Yes. I may not have been with one of them myself, but I’ve seen plenty,” Skar explained. Some other time, he might have wanted to press for details, to learn what he could expect if he were ever so lucky as to get such an opportunity. At the moment, though, he was more inclined to focus on the opportunity right in front of him.

The fingers gliding up and down his taper certainly helped keep that focus strong, of course. Skar had met a few merlins with what he’d thought were nimble tongues, and that had rocked his world. This was on a whole new level; just from that light touch, he was still quivering on the edge of release. Anything more, and – oh, there it was, a warm, firm squeeze around his length. Pleasure surged all over again, the world wavering, his length bucking in the other male’s grasp, squirting out another mouthful of seed; or so it felt as it pulsed out of him, at least.

At this rate, oh, he was going to be so wonderfully spent.

When he brought his eyes back into focus, Kadrin was tossing his apron aside, onto the bales of fresh hay. Removing it had, by some mercy, necessitated removing his hand from Skar’s piece, but the intent focus in his gaze suggested it would be as short a time as possible before contact was restored; for the moment he was tugging at his belt. Noticing Skar’s renewed attention, the vahn said, “There is… there is something I’ve wanted to try, but never before seemed like it would truly work.” His frill was flat, his tail twitching behind him. Anxious? “Not with humans, not even with vahni. But you–”

“With all the ways we’re different,” Skar mused, “the thought that one of them might actually work for us is pretty fine. Do what you like; I’ll tell you if it’s uncomfortable, and otherwise, it’ll be something new for me to try.”

Kadrin got his belt undone, reached behind himself to fiddle with something over his tail, and then wriggled out of his trousers. For a moment, Skar found himself confused, not seeing what he’d expected to see down below – just a slight gap in the fine scales. But that gap was getting a little more pronounced, something trying to make itself known from within. Male in a way the gryphon recognized, yes, even if he concealed it more thoroughly at rest.

But rather than waiting for that hidden member to come into the open – or helping it along – the vahn moved right up to his guest, between hindlegs that Skar tried to keep in close to his belly and spread out of the way. One hand leaned on the gryphon’s thigh, which helped a bit in that respect; the other, still generously smeared with Skar’s seed, was spreading it over that slit.

Skar had just enough time to think Wait, is he – before, in fact, he did.

The scales there were a bit rougher than the skin on the vahn’s fingers, firmer than the brush of a feather; enough to tickle, which made the gryphon utter a yip that he only just managed to stifle most of the breath out of. It took a few seconds of such rubbing before Kadrin achieved his goal, slit parting before the gryphon’s tip, and Skar slid into him – right alongside the unmistakeable firm warmth of his own swelling length.

And he’d thought just having his meat up against another merlin’s was “close.” This was closer to another male than he’d even known he could be. Every breath, every slight shift, made his seed-slick shaft slide against his new lover’s, and both of them were wrapped snug in the vahn’s body, a soft, snug embrace that grew tighter by the moment as Kadrin’s length swelled.

Skar was swept along by a roiling wave of ecstasy. Every motion, whether his or Kadrin’s, just made some sensation surge still higher. He was distantly aware of a needy mewling that he barely recognized as his own, of the blanket against the back of his head, of Kadrin’s hands buried in his belly-fur; but all he could process with any clarity was the flesh sliding against his own and the flesh surrounding both, and jet after jet of his own seed rushing out of him.

And then, suddenly, Kadrin pulled off of him with a gasp, panting hard. The firm heat of his now-very-ready length pressed up against Skar’s again a moment later, but after the snug warmth of his body, the air now surrounding them was shockingly cool. Not that this served in any way to dampen Skar’s excitement – very much the opposite; it just gave him something to focus on.

When he lifted his head, Kadrin was grinning down at him, frill once again standing tall. “You lose yourself to this much more than I’d have expected of one who flies,” the vahn observed, wrapping a hand around their fencing shafts.

Measure by measure, Skar was getting used to that grasp. Or maybe it was just a matter of his initial urgency being blunted. He gape-grinned back for a moment. “Mating on the wing is overrated,” he replied. “Partly because I’d need to keep focused on flying.”

Another chitter. “Ah. I see.” His hips stilled, body arching in an almost languid stretch, though one didn’t need to feel his rigid manhood to know he was still very excited. “You have given me a new experience, and it worked better than I expected. Next, what might I do for you?”

“You might come up here and let me get a good look at you,” the gryphon said, and just in case his intent could use a bit more spelling out, flicked his tongue.

Kadrin shivered atop him. “Hssss. I can do that.” He pushed himself back upright; when Skar tucked in his hindlegs and a wing to make room, the vahn obligingly walked around and up to his shoulder. Skar’s eyes were able to see all the relevant details as soon as he’d drawn back, of course, but that dry practicality didn’t lessen his delight when the vahn’s white-glazed shaft was right in front of his beak.

Skar was not in the habit of ranking his lovers, but some comparison to what he was used to might have been inevitable. Male gryphons were more or less of a size with humans, with some variation in size between their hindlegs that didn’t necessarily match with their size overall; fairly thick at the base, smoothly tapering in a sort of drooping cone shape (though that curve was usually upwards rather than down), with the latter half textured by a band of fleshy nubs. Thinner at the tip, which might have been what prompted Kadrin to take him in like that. What Skar had before him now was definitely on the longer side of things – the largest he’d seen up close, maybe the biggest he’d seen at all even as a distant voyeur. The flesh was pale, compared to the deep red of a gryphon’s piece; a bit slimmer at the base but staying that thick through an upward curve, only tapering off when it started curving the other way. Skar gave it a light lick, and under the taste of his own seed was something distinctly new, yet still recognizably masculine; it twitched upwards at the contact, its owner letting out a soft whimper.

Well, that was promising. Very enticing.

Skar didn’t have the dexterity to handle a penis with anything resembling safety, but he wasn’t completely unable to grip things. It took some care to do without putting his talons somewhere they didn’t belong, of course, but not so much that he couldn’t do it at a time like this. Instead, he took hold of the vahn’s thigh, tugged him in a bit closer, and let his tongue alone dance up and down that curving shaft.

Kadrin moaned over him, hands questing about his head for a few moments, then finding a spot to grip and settle. He rocked back and forth, sliding his length against the gryphon’s tongue. For all the many and considerable differences between them, that response felt so natural that Skar didn’t have the slightest bit of trouble getting into it, tilting his head this way and that, lapping away.

About a minute in, though, he had the realization that he might have gotten in over his head. A fellow gryphon would almost certainly have made a mess by now, probably twice over; but the vahn’s whimpers and moans, while gently escalating, didn’t offer him any indication that the man was about to finish. He kept at it, part of him determined to succeed, to taste his host’s seed, but with a building soreness in his jaw that just might force him to back off.

In the end, fatigue won. Gasping, he pulled his tongue back in and worked his jaw a few times. When he tentatively pulled his head back a bit, Kadrin let him go, one hand staying on the gryphon’s head but not impeding his movement; the vahn’s whimpers ebbed, but he kept panting eagerly, casting a toothy grin downwards. “That,” he declared, “was incredible.”

Skar tried to shove his inner critic, the part of him declaring his efforts a failure, off to the side. For the most part, it worked, that voice subsiding to a slight disquieting mutter. But he had to admit, “I was hoping I’d get you to finish.” A pleasing thought came to mind, and he gape-grinned back upwards. “I guess I’ll need more practice to manage that.”

“Oh? Need to wash down your food, do you?” The vahn rubbed behind an ear that Skar hadn’t realized was furled back until the touch brought his own attention to it.

“It would have been a tasty treat, I’m sure,” Skar replied, savouring some momentary daydreams about just how it might have tasted; would it have been the same pungency he knew from his own kind, or would there be something distinct to it? More sweetness, something else?

Thoughts for another time. Right now, he wanted to move forward. “But for the moment, I think I could offer your little friend there a softer place, mmmm?” He was quite sure his other end wouldn’t fail him by the time Kadrin reached his peak, and the thought of that curving shaft buried inside him, pressing here and there, pumping its warm load into him… that was almost enough to push him to another peak then and there; he shuddered, tail flagging.

“Oh, that’s a nice thought,” Kadrin hissed. He ambled past Skar’s side, hand trailing along the gryphon’s spine. Tingling anticipation grew with each of the other male’s strides; Skar hunkered down over his forepaws, suddenly feeling an aching emptiness yearning to be filled, a craving that was simply too much to contain by the time that roving hand came to rest on his rump, right over the base of his tail. “At your size, I might be able to manage without oil, hrrrr?”

“Please,” Skar whined, squeezing his eyes shut. He could still picture every inch of that delicious length, poised to slip into him –

And then the warm, wet tip of it nudged the root of his tail.

He couldn’t have stifled a whimper if he’d wanted to. In that moment, his only need was to feel that heat sliding home. And the gods and Kadrin had mercy, for in the space of a few breaths, the vahn got himself oriented and started spreading the gryphon’s tailhole open, spearing into him.

Gods, it was a delight. Slick with Skar’s saliva and traces of the gryphon’s seed, the vahn thrust into him in one smooth stroke, probing deep, deep inside him. Skar’s upraised tail tried to lash, ran into Kadrin’s neck, and wound around it; one of the smaller male’s hands clutched at that tail near its base, the other clenched against the gryphon’s flank, and he started thrusting back and forth, out and in, with abandon. Each stroke had him rubbing against that one wonderful spot inside Skar’s body, sending a spike of pleasure through him, and inside half a dozen that pleasure boiled over. He shuddered as his seed started coursing out of him anew, a rather indiscreet cry building up inside him – he barely had the presence of mind to clamp a forepaw over his beak and plant it into the bed, muffling that cry into a keening whine.

And still the vahn was spearing into him, again and again. The man’s body just did not give up, it seemed; his breath was quick and laboured, grunts working out of him with each thrust, soft at first but quickly growing quite pronounced, and still he kept going. Again and again and again Skar felt his seed running down his length and jetting out of him, ebbing slightly only to surge all over again as that hot flesh worked its magic inside him.

Then, very suddenly, the assault came to an end. Kadrin gasped and shoved hard against his rump, grinding in tight. Buried deep under Skar’s tail, the vahn’s length bucked and jerked – and as Skar’s own pleasure finally faded into something a bit gentler, he was in a position to really appreciate it, to understand – to relish – that his new lover was at long last caught in his own climax, was pumping a warm, wet load deep into him.

He was sore and shaking from overstimulation, but this moment was entirely worth it. Just as Kadrin’s climax had taken longer to arrive, so too did it stretch out, punctuated by tiny, jerky shoves as though he was straining to push in just a little bit further. And where gryphons would need to keep up the stimulation if they wanted to keep up the pleasure, the vahn could just let it run its course, and Skar could savour every moment of it, every panting breath, every twitch, every hot pulse inside him.

Ahh, life was good.

Bit by bit, Kadrin’s laboured breathing grew steadier. He groaned, pushed upright where he’d slumped over the gryphon’s back, and drew himself out with one last, slippery stroke over that special spot. “Shards,” he husked, “I’ve never had it be so—so easy. So simple to just let go.”

“New delights all around,” Skar purred. “But are you sated, or could you still go for more? I’m well-pleased, but I’m sure I could still muster some energy.”

“Maybe something a bit more sedate?” Kadrin let out another chittering laugh. “And maybe you could return the favour, hrrr?” One of his hands curled around Skar’s very drippy length, and he issued a sound rather like a purr himself as the gryphon hunched into his grasp. “You’re already so slippery—if you can keep it gentle, I’m sure I could do something with this.”

Gentle, huh? That wasn’t a request he’d got all that often, but it wasn’t unknown, either. “I can do gentle,” he promised, and by way of demonstration, pushed just a bit into the vahn’s grip.

It went in a fairly familiar fashion from there, except that Kadrin was quite a bit smaller than Skar’s previous lovers; even with him lying face up across the nest-bed, there’d be no making eye contact this time. But, really, it was nothing he didn’t know how to do. Once Kadrin was comfortably situated, Skar straddled him — “mounting” the bed more than the person, but otherwise much the same posture on his part — and eased forward. There was a thigh — ah, there was the base of his tail; with a low rumble of pleasure vibrating in his throat, Skar made some guesses based on their relative sizes, shifted his hindquarters to adjust his aim, and nudged forward where tail and thighs met.

By the whimper and sudden shudder under him, he’d guessed pretty much right.

It was rather different having scaly hide rather than fur or feathers against his sensitive skin, but he was slick enough from their earlier exertions that it definitely wasn’t a problem. A difference to be noted, appreciated, and delighted in, not afraid of. Once he’d started pressing up under that stout tail and into the snug warmth beyond, well, that was quite familiar indeed. He took his time with it, as though the fellow under him were a young male new to this kind of stimulation, alert for any sudden change in the vahn’s body, or in the sounds being muffled by the gryphon’s chest-feathers; but Kadrin just hung on and tugged him closer.

He really was wonderfully tight; as long as that didn’t make it uncomfortable for the vahn either, Skar definitely wasn’t going to complain. It was almost as much pressure around Skar’s taper as the vahn’s hand had been, and that was a very fine thing indeed.

Of course, the real challenge — or treat — for the smaller male was going to be when Skar went the other way, but that was a concern for a bit in the future yet. For now, Skar kept working inward, just barely pressing forward by curling his toes, until their bodies were as snug against each other as they were going to get and the whole of his shaft was shrouded in warmth, and there he rested; stirring just a bit from the motions of their respective breaths, otherwise just savouring the closeness of the moment.

“Ah, stars,” Kadrin moaned into his chest. “So good!”

“Oh, we’re not done yet,” Skar purred, feeling his tail flick and his toes flex in anticipation. “Ready for what’s next?”

“Haaah — I think so,” came the breathy reply.

So Skar leaned back, drawing out ever so slightly, letting the nubs on his length do their work. Kadrin gasped, shuddered, and squirmed under him, a rather distinctive firm heat pressing up against his belly.

“Hrrrr. Making it a bit harder to stay gentle, Kadrin,” Skar hissed, pushing back in and grinding against the other male. The vahn shivered and whimpered under him, clutching at his feathers, but didn’t muster a further reply. That was fine; the physical response was eloquent enough, really. Very flattering. Skar pulled back again, just as gently, and again, gently let himself sink in to the hilt. He wasn’t pulling back more than an inch or so, but that was plenty to give them both ample stimulation.

He could feel another climax building, this time with plenty of warning; enough to stay hilted when he felt himself tipping over the edge, rather than pulling back for another stroke only to frantically shove in. It was, fittingly, a gentler affair than those that had seized him before — a soft well of pleasure, a few warm pulses of seed. It seemed to be at least as strong an experience for Kadrin, issuing a keening whine and pressing his snout into Skar’s feathers, trembling from one end to the other — but still not quite enough to get Skar’s belly-fur sticky.

Well, okay. Skar would have been satisfied to stop by this point, but he wasn’t spent. He got back to it, this time with a bit more vigour, slowly pulling about half his length free, then sinking it back in. Kadrin let out a sudden yip, but when Skar might have paused, the vahn just shoved against him, keeping the rhythm going.

Then, suddenly, he clenched around Skar’s taper, shoving sharply up against him, then again, and — ooh, there it was, wet warmth in his fur, slicking it down where the vahn’s bucking length slid against him.

Now that was a delight. Partly, it was an affirmation—this thing he’d been curious about for years wasn’t just him being strange, it was something someone else wanted too, and it was something that could work. But in the moment, maybe it would be more appropriate to focus on the physical delight. The delight that this man had caused him, and that which he was quite evidently feeling.

Skar closed his eyes to focus on his other senses, the ones that could tell him about his partner: the drawn-out whines, the laboured breaths; the shifting and fidgeting under him, the wet warmth against his belly; the clenching and releasing around his taper. He’d been with enough other males for most of that to be deliciously familiar, and the things that were different, he drank in. If he was maybe going to visit this place some more in the future, he wanted to remember what these sounds meant, to know their significance without needing to stop and think about it.

He was aware, with a curious distance to it, of his own pleasure, of a few more pulses of seed mustered up and offered forth, and that was fitting; but it was the vahn’s longer-awaited climax that really dominated his attention. Every little shift and fidget, every tiny noise – he drank in all of it and yearned for more. As it went on, it lost some of its frantic urgency, but still – it was amazing how much longer Kadrin’s orgasm went on than a gryphon’s would.

Sated and spent for his own part, Skar still wanted a better impression of his lover’s. Carefully, he eased his softening shaft out of the other male’s body – not so carefully as to avoid any kind of disruption; the vahn cried out and arched up, clutching at Skar’s feathers. But the gryphon wasn’t trying to pull away, just down – enough that he could see Kadrin’s face, eyes squeezed shut, jaws slightly parted; enough to feel the man’s gasping breath over his own jaw.

That was a good feeling. Kadrin got the idea and looped an arm around Skar’s neck; that was an even better feeling. Close and comfortable and very well-sated, Skar waited out the tail end of his lover’s climax for the softer, gentler afterglow. It was such a fine thing, hearing his breaths glow slower and steadier, feeling his body go slack and still; Skar was glad Kadrin wasn’t the sort to get fidgety and restless soon after, at least not this time, and just as glad that he himself wasn’t in one of his own occasional restless moods. He could take the time to appreciate each of those breaths, those tremors; not for anything so involved as counting them, but just comparing them to the moment before.

Finally Kadrin drew a deep breath. “It’s been much too long,” he said, “and I could not have asked for a finer way to end that drought. Thank you so much.” He nuzzled at Skar’s jaw.

Skar couldn’t restrain a squawking laugh. “Thanking me? I’m the one getting the royal treatment here!” He ducked his head and nuzzled up under Kadrin’s jaw. “But it’s good to know what’s good for me is good for you, too. Thank you.”

One of those clever hands slipped down to stroke along Skar’s jaw, then drifted upwards, giving one of his ears a caress. A little tilt of the gryphon’s head pressed the base of that ear against the vahn’s fingers, and his host got the idea right away, starting to rub and scratch there. Ahhh. Life was good.

“I am so glad you arrived on a night Keshar was here,” Kadrin said with a soft chuckle. “I couldn’t have taken all this time if I’d needed to mind the other guests.”

Skar blinked. It occurred to him suddenly that he hadn’t seen far enough into the main room to know how busy it actually was in there. And there were a number of horses. He might not have been the only person seeking refuge from the storm… “Do you, uh, need to check back with him?”

Another chitter-laugh. “Not urgently. He said to me – hrrr, how to translate this – ‘Anything you wish to do that pleases him, do. The least thing I can do with the life his efforts allowed to go on is to keep you from other distractions for a time.’” Kadrin shifted, turning his attentions to Skar’s other ear. “The way he said ‘pleases’ was… not quite suggestive, it might be said of any servant, but the word is used for that sort of service, too.”

“I really must have misread him,” Skar admitted.

“He misreads him, sometimes,” Kadrin replied. “When others are around, he wears a mask over his feelings. Sometimes even he believes it. You aren’t the first, and you surely won’t be the last.”

“You’ve convinced me he’s a good and open-minded person, at least. If you’re sure I don’t need to apologize for thinking worse of him at first —”

“Not at all.”

“Then I’ll try to convince myself everything’s settled,” Skar declared. “And if I happen to find myself in Greyfell with a bit of time, maybe I will try to learn a bit more about Kurgan.”

“He might not show it, or might mask it in formalities, but I am sure he’ll be touched if you seek him out,” said Kadrin, fingers gliding along Skar’s chin. Then he took a decisive breath. “For now, though, it seems we’re both in need of some more grooming, yes?”

“Can’t imagine how that happened,” Skar purred. “By all means, make us both presentable again! I think it’ll be easier to stay that way this time,” he added, and gape-grinned.

Another chittering laugh. “I do hope you’ll come by here in the future,” the vahn said, even as he soaked and wrung out a cloth. “With luck, I’ll be better-prepared – and better-staffed.”

“No need to combine business with pleasure, hrrr?” Gently, Skar nudged the smaller male’s shoulder with the top of his beak. “I think I’d like that. I’ll be sure to spread the word about this place, too – especially if I hear of any gryphon-grooms looking for a place to set up.”

“Thank you,” Kadrin replied, cupping a hand against Skar’s cheek. “For everything.”

Skar just closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. There’d be time enough in the future for those plans; this, right now, was a moment to savour, and he intended to do just that.