#ansfrid

No beating of expansive wings; we glide above the Strait of Merlthor, the gradual loss of altitude offset by the occasional thermal updraft. I watch as his ears swivel, listening for them even as his eyes must be searching for the distinct haze. One hand on the horn of the saddle, I lean forward to ruffle Ansfrid's neck feathers and to scratch the skin beneath.

Ansfrid had not always been "my" griffin. Even now, as he rolled to the left and dove for the next thermal, he was more companion than steed. He had been taken, broken, and tamed by Ortolf Forgehands, his former master, from a nest somewhere on Abalathia's Spine. He'd been meant as nothing more than a beast of burden to ferry me back and forth from Ishgard to the Coerthan wastes, where I'd been forced to undergo training. I'd won Ansfrid's friendship and loyalty through the sort of kindness and compassion that Ortolf and the rest of the Four Crows could not muster.

That his former master had beaten him unconscious, the time that Ortolf had come after us to confront me over my possession of a soul crystal, had ushered along the shift in the griffin's worldview. I had never once struck him; the undead monk had.

Ansfrid comes and finds me at least twice a sennight after my morning routine. Exhausted as I usually am, he waits patiently for me to fetch his saddle and secure it to him. Some suns, I do not bother: I mount his back and grasp at his feathers, so dense as to resemble fur, to hold myself steady. We take to the skies on those suns, and we enjoy each other's company as I put him through his paces. I am a taskmaster he can trust to keep him in fit and fighting shape.

Sometimes, I need him and whistle for him. It's not known to me or to my family where he roosts, and out of respect for his privacy we have not gone looking. It must be near to the Beds though, somewhere in the Black Shroud. That he is tolerated bodes well; the collar I affixed to his neck, to ward off adventurers who might mistake him for a threat, might have something to do with that. I infuse the gemstone with my aether on the regular.

My favorite flights are those over the ocean. He is not partial to these, for plucking prey from the water is not his speciality, but he humors me in exchange for trips to the highest peaks of Abalathia. Those trips make for good training; breathing exercises are essential to a monk's maintenance of self. But over the ocean… those trips are indulgent, guilty pleasures all, and there is nothing quite like the feeling of soaring low past a Maelstrom galleon, whooping for joy as he cries his griffin call, to announce that we are free.