Assan is napping, you guys.
He is very good at napping. It’s one of the primary skills of a griffon after all. He doesn’t have any grown griffons to tell him so. But he has his dad.
“Come on, buddy. Are you really just gonna lay there all afternoon?”
“I’m gonna need you to get off my legs at some point, little guy, I can’t feel them anymore.”
“Are you going to leave any of that bed for me or are you going to just…sure. Help yourself. I didn’t need that pillow.”
Father’s praise is abundant and generous. Assan can hear the pride in it. He is a good fledgling. He has learned to nap well.
But it is important to have a community.
“Biiiiiiiiiiiiig stretch!” says the one who smells of forests and won’t let Assan in her room because it is ‘delicate,’ and ‘explosive,’ whatever that means.
Her eyes grow big with delight when Assan gets up. Front legs in a bow, back legs one by one. He curves in an elegant arch, and finally his wings in a great shudder that rattles his feathers all the way down to his lion tail.
He yawns and looks at his new friend.
Her eyes are very big. She’s sketching in her little book. “So cute!” she squeaks.
“Hello Assan!” says Manfred’s Dad.
He is older, which means he has survived a long time. There are a lot of things in the world that will Eat You if you are not careful. Assan respects this.
“You’re a very good boy,” he praises Assan, and Assan believes him. He does not know about the nest of books Assan and Manfred have been building behind the bookcase.
Then Assan is raking his claws against the kitchen door.
The door opens. And the one that smells like Spite pokes his head out.
Assan freezes with his claws still inside the door, several deep rents decorate it.
They stare at each other. Assan worries perhaps he has intruded on the wrong territory. He does not want to upset the one who smells like Spite. The one who smells like Spite gives very very good treats.
The man’s eyes narrow at the markings in his door.
“Sharp. Good!” and he gives Assan a bit of fish.
The one who smells like Spite also has very good claws that he keeps on his belt and in his boots and other places Assan cannot see. He is always sharpening them.
Assan slides down the door with several satisfying scrapes.
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