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Chapter 7: Feathers and Fights

Beyond the western walls of Entis, where the Pilgrims' Road winds away from the stone embrace of the city and melts into the gentle swell of wildflower meadows, there lies a place of quiet renown — The Gilded Feather, one of the famed Preeners, as such establishments are called among gryphons and humans alike.

It was no mere brothel, nor simply a bathhouse. To name it so would be to mistake a soaring eagle for a common sparrow. The Gilded Feather was a place of indulgence, where pleasure, rest, and company were offered not as transactions but as carefully tended gifts. It was a Preeners—one of those rare establishments known for weaving together the sensual, the social, and the sacred promise of discretion.

But unlike the vertical clutter of Entis' towers, The Gilded Feather was built for the sky. It sprawled, low and elegant, across the hillside, following the curve of the land with the grace of a gryphon at rest. Its multi-leveled wings open around courtyards lush with flowering trees and marble fountains. No corner of it was cramped. Space was its greatest luxury. Space to breathe, to fly, to perch.

Great arched windows welcomed the breeze, and broad balconies and open-roofed lounges ensured that a gryphon need never fold its wings longer than it desires. Even the ceilings were high and rounded, evoking the grand aeries of mountain clans, while ramps and gentle inclines allowed grounded guests to navigate the same spaces without feeling small or unwelcome.

By day, light poured unhindered into every hall. By night, the walls and columns glowed softly with sigil-lit lanterns and whispering charms, illuminating silk banners and polished stone with the steady warmth of a quiet hearth.

Within, an establishment of fun and relaxation awaited guests. The bath wings offered a tranquility and gentle touch to sooth life's worries and sores away. The Feathered Hall pulsed with laughter, music, and the clatter of cards beneath dancing talons. The private chambers ranged from intimate to opulent, shaped not by presumption but by the whispered desires of their guests. Everywhere, gryphons, and humans moved in practiced harmony, neither rushing nor pressing, always inviting, never forcing. The Gilded Feather held fast to the old rules of three that mark every true Preeners: No guest left unfulfilled, consent is sacred, and discretion is absolute.

Built with a variety of amenities, as all things within a proper Preeners should be, it was no simple human tavern, nor a mountain eyrie left bare by impatient gryphons. It was a space shared, designed with deliberate harmony between those who walked and those who flew.

Tables here were broad, circular things of dark-polished wood, their edges thick and rimmed with subtle carvings of wind-currents and leaping prey. The tables themselves were tiered with the inner circle lower for those who sat upon cushions or benches, while a higher outer ring allowed gryphons to play while perched, foreclaws resting easily upon the ledge without awkward bending. Even the perches were arranged thoughtfully, built into the stonework itself like natural outcroppings, some elevated for privacy, others closer to the floor where gryphons could mingle more directly with humans and other ground-bound folk.

Humans, dwarves, halflings — all were welcome here. Halflings, with their quick hands and quicker tongues, crowded a far corner, dealing loudly, wheeling with practiced charm, their voices rising in a crescendo of negotiation and flirtation with the staff. A pair of dwarves, stoic and unimpressed, shared a narrow alcove where they sipped stone-cooled spirits and grunted at the passing noise, all while sharpening a set of rune-etched dice. Above, gryphons glided lazily between suspended perches and balcony platforms, exchanging idle gossip or watching the tables with sharp, unreadable eyes.

From where he sat, Nelneras could feel the soft pulse of the place—the flutter of wings, the rise and fall of conversation, the muted scent of citrus, spice, and old wood heavy with stories.

Yet, he was apart from it, if only in spirit.

His thoughts strayed, despite the familiar setting and the gentle hum of gryphon voices.

The day had passed like the turning of a well-loved page, each suggestion from the mage he met today followed with care and, he admitted, a quiet hope. He had wandered an art gallery, its silent halls echoing with the weight of color and brushstroke, each piece whispering of old pride and older wounds. He had amongst other in an arena, watching warriors and spellcasters clash with fire and steel, their struggles impressive but somehow lacking when measured against the quiet strength he had seen in Axton's eyes.

The city itself, worn but proud, had revealed its hidden corners to him, all as the mage had suggested. It was a shame that the human didn't have time to join him, he would have liked to get to know him more as they explored the city.

Too shy, Nelneras thought, eyes half-lidded as he circled a talon along the rim of his silver bowl. He could still see clearly the flustered apology, the gentle refusal. Not fear. Not revulsion. Just... hesitation.

And it amused him. It intrigued him. A human mage, who studied dragons and dragon magic, let alone magic from ancient times, so intently, and yet stumbled at the chance to speak to one—even if he did not yet know it. There was something there. Nelneras knew the shape of curiosity when he saw it. He had seen it flicker behind the young man's guarded eyes. He sipped at his mead, savoring the taste more out of habit than attention.

It would have been easier if he had simply said no with conviction, Nelneras mused, with the ghost of a smile curling at the edge of his beak. But the uncertain ones... ah, they are always the most fascinating. Still the look he had on his face. He mused to himself, perhaps out of arrogance, the human would be too tempted by his charm to deny him. He merely had to wait.

He sat at one of the many wide, polished tables scattered across the gambling hall, talons resting lightly upon the worn edge as he stared absently at the cards before him. The game was called Skycourt, the favored gryphon contest, and one he had played more times than he cared to count. To a human's eye, it might resemble some cousin of poker—cards, wagers, the steady measuring of opponents—but to a gryphon, it was far more.

Skycourt was no mere game of chance. It was a dance, a test of will and wits born in the high mountain aeries long before humans had carved their first cities. Each card played was not just a move, but a maneuver that was a part of a calculated step in an imagined aerial display, where feints and flourishes built upon one another until the victor stood alone, wings spread wide, commanding the sky. Deception, pride, elegance, and the courage to dive when others would stall—that was the heart of Skycourt.

“By the feathered god, Valaros!" Spoke a gryphon as broad as a barn door and twice as stubborn. He was called Grellith, who was hunched over his cards, feathers ruffled, and wings slightly puffed, as if he expected a fight instead of a game. His bronze and grey plumage was scruffy, his posture casual, but his eyes sharp with the wild energy of someone who bluffed more often than he told the truth. He slapped the table with a heavy talon, causing cards and goblets to tremble. “Have you gone dull, or are you scheming so deep you've fallen in?"

Veska, a gryphoness as slender and sharp as a dagger's kiss, lounged with predatory ease as she toyed with her cards, talons tracing idle patterns on their edges. Midnight-blue feathers caught the lamplight with every subtle shift of her wings, while white-flecked tips along her neck and tail seemed to dance with every amused flick. She laid down a card face down to join the spread of her 'arial dance' before her.

“He's pining. Look at him." She chuckled, grabbing a silver goblet with a deep red fruit concoction within, “He's been brooding all evening. Bet he saw something he liked and couldn't catch it."

“Oh no, you think he lost a fish?" Blinked a looming gryphon beside her. This was Korrin he was like a misplaced cliffside, a gryphon larger than even Grellith with russet and cream plumage. He gave a lazy grin as he was the least skilled bunch at the game. Nelneras took him as a gryphon who found joy in the simple things, even if it included losing some coin to his friends. His wings sagged lazily over the sides of his perch, and his cards were held upside down—again.

Korrin glanced to Nelneras with wide, earnest yellow eyes, “Happened to me once. Spotted a real nice one, silver scales, fat belly, practically leapt out of the stream just for me… and I still missed it." He gave a heavy, mournful sigh and then, after a beat, brightened. “Course, I did find it later behind the rock. Still flopped about a bit. Tasted great."

Veska nearly spat her drink, while Grellith let out a wheezing cackle, feathers shaking. “By the winds, Korrin, we're not talking about fish."

“Oh..." Korrin's ears drooped slightly, only to immediately perk back up. “Then… what were we talking about?"

“Never mind, darling. Play your cards." Mused the gryphoness.

Nelneras sighed and searched through his hand, it wasn't the worst one out of the bunch. He added a card to his display and passed the turn, “Perhaps, I had Veska," he said lightly, talons tapping his goblet. “Or perhaps some creatures are simply cautious—reluctant to step into open skies when the wind is unfamiliar." His beak tilted into the faintest hint of a wry smile, but his eyes remained distant. “But who knows..." he added, gaze flicking up just enough to meet Veska's sharp stare with gentle defiance, “the winds have a way of changing. Sooner or later."

Grellith immediately squawked with laughter, tossing a Winds card onto the pile with unnecessary force. “Ha! I knew it! It's the barkeep, isn't it? The gryphoness with the silver-ringed feathers? You've been making eyes at her all night, Val."

“Mmm, or perhaps just watching how well she handles her... bottles," Veska purred, flicking a Prey card onto her chain with the careless grace.

“Or how she pours. Always had a taste for the confident ones."

Korrin, fumbling with his cards, held up a Maneuver card upside down, beaming.

“I like her too! She always remembers to bring the candied walnuts." He blinked. “Wait... are we talking about feelings again?" Veska and Grellith nearly spilled their drinks laughing.

“Not quite, featherbrain," Veska wheezed. “But close enough."

Nelneras, dignified to the last, remained still, offering no correction. He merely plucked a Claws card from his talons and placed it softly onto his chain. “I assure you," he said dryly, “if I were to make an approach, I would not do so half-heartedly."

“Which is exactly why you're brooding tonight, eh?" Grellith thumped the table with a talon, scattering a few tokens. “Rejected like a hatchling trying to fly with soggy feathers!"

“Maybe she's just shy! My cousin took four summers before he talked to his mate." Korrin clumsily stacked two more cards, clearly forgetting whose turn it was. “Real sweet pair. She still pecks him when he forgets to clean his tail feathers though."

“Bah, at this rate Valaros will be nesting alone tonight." Veska snorted into her goblet, while Grellith shook his head.

Their laughter swelled again as the cards shifted, bets were pressed forward, and the Skycourt game continued without pause.

Through it all, Nelneras simply smirked, eyes half-lidded, content to let them chase the wrong prey. In truth, the memory of the shy mage and his stammered refusal still lingered like a quiet song in the back of his mind, far more intriguing than any barkeep could hope to be.

The game circled the table like a slow, predatory wind, each card cast down with practiced ease, each wager placed with just enough bravado to keep feathers ruffled and laughter flowing. Grellith and Veska played well—better than most. They knew the game, understood the bluffs and counters, the small tells that gave away weakness, but Nelneras had been at this long before either of them had so much as cracked the shell of their first egg.

For all their cleverness, for all their jeers and jests, they were hatchlings when measured against him. He won, of course. The pot was steadily growing before his talons, a small mound of silver, brass, and a few baubles tossed in for spice. Yet, as with all things, Nelneras practiced restraint. He let them take hands now and then, played a weaker card where he might have crushed them, folded early when he could have pressed. Not from pity, but from understanding. Winning too much spoiled the game.

Spooking them would drive them from the table, and Nelneras found, in truth, that the banter, the friendly insults, and the careless swagger of youth were far more satisfying than a hoard of coins. It was not the winnings he sought tonight, it was the exchange, the dance of wit, the comfort of company that expected nothing more of him than to be Valaros, the outlander gryphon with a taste for mead and cards. No titles, no reverence, no burdens.

It was when the most recent hand had ended with Grellith cursing under his breath, sliding his wager into the growing pot that the gryphon laughed and gestured his beak toward the wide archway beyond, where soft light and drifting music spilled into the gambling hall like the wind itself.

“Tell me, Valaros," He said, feathers ruffling with mock suspicion, “why aren't you out there shaking your tail feathers with the rest of them?"

Veska snorted, catching the scent of an easy jest. “Plenty out there who'd have you," she added, swirling her goblet lazily. “Some of them might even ask you to dance, if you flashed those golden plumes of yours."

Through the archway, the music wove its way into the room. It was no mere tavern jig, but a low, winding melody — steady drumbeats like a heartbeat, soft lyres singing beneath it, the occasional mournful rise of a flute threading between the notes. It was a song meant for close steps and quieter touches, not the wild flailing of drunken feathers. Dancers moved beyond the threshold, gryphon and human alike, their forms only half-seen in the golden haze of lanternlight.

With practiced calm, Nelneras leaned back into his perch, talons tapping softly against his goblet. “Eh, too much squawking for my taste," he replied, casting a glance toward the dancing hall as though it were some distant, tiresome obligation. “I prefer quieter joys — a good book, a sharp wit, or the comfort of good company." His gaze drifted lazily across the table. “Besides," he added, a sly smile curving his beak, “I'd rather be here, robbing you lot blind."

“You sly bastard," Veska hissed through a crooked grin, tipping her goblet toward him. “Been playing us like stringed instruments all night."

“You've been feeding us scraps," Grellith muttered, wings half-flared in irritation, though the twinkle in his eye betrayed his enjoyment. “Leading us along like fledglings too daft to fly."

Korrin blinked slowly, holding up his cards as if suddenly realizing how little they were worth.

“Wait," he said with a tilt of his head. “You're supposed to let us win sometimes?"

Veska choked on her drink, and Grellith let out a gravelly laugh.

Nelneras, unfazed, settled back into his perch with languid ease, one talon swirling the last of his mead in idle circles. “Sore losers," he replied smoothly. “I cannot be held responsible if you're soft and slow."

“Soft, is it?" Veska said, sharp as a drawn claw. “You'll be soft when I wring those feathers off you."

Grellith snorted. “Bah! He'd just cheat better next time."

Nelneras only smirked and lifted a talon toward the bar. “Another round," he called, the words sliding from his beak like silk. “On me."

“And candied walnuts!" Korrin added, tail giving a hopeful swish.

The server gave a small nod and disappeared into the crowd.

Veska leaned back, wings loose and lazy. “Buying drinks after robbing us blind? I admire the cruelty."

“It's not cruelty," Nelneras replied without missing a beat. “From where I come from, it's tradition."

He let the familiar rhythm of the gambling hall settle around him — the soft murmur of voices, the gentle thrum of music drifting from the Feathered Hall, the scent of citrus and woodsmoke curling from the incense pots set into the corners. The feathered and furred patrons around the room carried on with the simple rituals of the night — wagers placed, drinks poured, conversations meandering.

Then came the sound. Heavy hooves, four sets, striking stone in measured, deliberate rhythm.

From one of the wide, arched passages leading in from the broader common areas of the Gilded Feather, four towering figures strode into the hall without ceremony, as if they were not entering, but claiming. They were unmistakable. Minotaurs.

The largest led with the swagger of one who thought of himself as master of every room he entered. His hulking form, easily pushing past seven feet with horns curling forward like the arms of some ancient war god, carried the weight of authority, though it reeked more of arrogance than earned respect. He chewed lazily on a strip of bitter root, teeth grinding it between slow, confident words that carried into the hall without apology.

Three followed behind him — all cut from the same savage cloth. One, smaller but wiry and sharp-eyed, stalked like a predator looking for insult. Another, younger, puffed out his chest with every step, cloven hooves clicking like war drums as he cackled at jokes that only he found amusing. The last, larger still, stooped slightly under the high beams, slow in stride, yet possessing a kind of mass that spoke of mountains rather than men.

They were not strangers to the hall. Nelneras did not miss the ripple of discomfort that ran through the room. The halflings at the near corner froze mid-wager, hands slipping instinctively toward coin-purses. One whispered something sharp before sliding from his cushion, vanishing into the folds of the crowd.

The dwarves by the hearth stiffened but kept their eyes on their mugs, stubbornly ignoring the disturbance. The gryphons above adjusted, wings rustling faintly on high perches. They did not leave, but they shifted, uneasy, careful not to draw notice.

Cutting straight to the bar, the minotaur's hooves echoed like slow war drums on polished stone. The leader leaned heavily against the counter, before tossing a smirk at the gryphoness behind it.

“Evenin', pretty wings," he said, voice rough, heavy with amusement. “What's a bull gotta do to get a drink—and maybe a little company?"

The young bull at his flank let out a crude laugh, clapping his chest with a hollow echo. The smaller one simply watched, eyes scanning the staff like prey. The large one at the rear stood in silence, presence alone enough to darken the air.

Still poised on his perch, Nelneras' eyes narrowed, “Tell me," He murmured, eyes tracing their stride, “do such beasts often darken these halls?"

Veska whispered without turning her head. “Minotaurs off the Iron Gale. They've been stomping about all week. Airship's waiting on repairs."

“You think they own the hall and city." Grellith growled under his breath.

“Snapped Wren's wing yesterday. Just for fun." Korrin nodded sadly.

At the bar, the lead bull leaned further into the counter, looming over the gryphoness tending the bottles. His hoof scraped along the polished stone as he shifted his weight, wings behind the bar wilting instinctively at his nearness.

“Come now, pretty one," he rumbled, his breath thick with the sour tang of fermented root. “You've nothing better to do than share a drink. Or are your talons too dainty to serve a real warrior?"

His fingers, thick as branches, toyed with the rim of a goblet that was not his own, sliding it deliberately across the counter toward the startled server.

Veska's feathers fluffed slightly, though she kept her voice low.

“That one," she whispered, eyes fixed on the scene, “they call him Brakkas. Thinks he's some hero because he wears a few trinkets on his horns. Just a thug with a title."

The second bull, smaller but wiry, prowled behind the counter like a wolf nosing through a henhouse. His sharp eyes searched the shelves, pawing at uninvited bottles.

“Gorim," Grellith said under his breath. “The cunning one. Won't raise a hoof if he can twist a word instead. Likes to goad others into fights so he can stand back and enjoy the mess."

The third, a younger bull with reddish fur, was already climbing onto one of the lower perches as if it were nothing more than a stage for his antics. He towered over a pair of young gryphon patrons, wings half-spread, chest puffed like a rooster.

“Rukka," Korrin supplied, ears low. “Thinks too much of himself. Challenges anyone smaller than him—likes to slap drinks out of hands. Did it to Jorrin two nights back."

As if on cue, Rukka knocked a cup from the talons of one of the young gryphons, sending it spinning across the floor. He laughed as if it were the cleverest joke in Lumara.

The last, broad as a boulder and slower than the rest, stood just beyond them, watching. He neither laughed nor spoke, but his mere presence behind the others lent weight to every act.

“And that's Droth," Veska finished, her voice sharp with disdain. “Big. Quiet. More dangerous for it."

Nelneras' eyes followed Droth for a breath longer than the others. He noted the stooped shoulders, the weathered leather harness, the heavy silence.

Yet it was not Droth who bothered him. It was Brakkas, with his leering grin. Gorim, rifling through bottles like he owned them. Rukka, preening on perches where he did not belong. And it was the hall itself that bothered him most — the quiet surrender, the eyes turned away, the silence from those who should have been its voice.

Talons curled softly around his goblet, the tension beneath his stillness all but imperceptible to the untrained eye. The gryphons had accepted it. The room had accepted it.

But Nelneras was not from this room.

Brakkas' gaze swept lazily across the room until it caught Nelneras — still and unflinching upon his perch.

Their eyes locked.

For the span of a heartbeat, the gambling hall seemed to be constricted, as if the stones themselves waited. Brakkas' grin widened. He clacked his blunt teeth together with amusement and without a word changed course, hooves echoing against the polished stone as he crossed directly to Nelneras' table. The other three bulls followed, swaggering like wolves finding a lamb isolated on the hillside.

Brakkas loomed over the table, one hand resting heavily on the carved edge, making no attempt at subtlety. “Mind if we join?" he asked, already pulling out a chair, which creaked in protest as his massive frame sank into it. The question was formality at best. He had already made himself at home.

He produced from his belt a worn, thick deck of heavy minotaur-carved cards, the edges stained from countless games and spilled drinks.

“You feather-folk play Skycourt, I hear." He gave a theatrical sniff. “Cute. But I reckon you've never handled a proper bull's game." His grin turned wolfish. “Fancy a lesson?"

At the table, Veska stiffened visibly, talons curling beneath her feathers. Grellith's wings twitched with instinctive agitation, his feathers flaring slightly before he caught himself. Korrin, poor Korrin, blinked in dawning horror, his gaze flicking helplessly between Nelneras and the bulls.

They dared not answer. Not one. Except Nelneras.

Without so much as shifting his posture, he reached for his cup and took a slow sip, letting the bitter-sweet taste linger before gently setting it aside. His voice was soft, smooth like a river-polished stone. “I presume," he said, meeting Brakkas' gaze without flinching, “I have the pleasure of addressing Brakkas, no?"

The minotaur's grin faltered, just for the briefest breath, eyes narrowing.

“I've heard the name," he added. “It seems to carry... quite the reputation."

Brakkas leaned back, clearly debating whether to take offense or accept the flattery. He chose the latter, though warily. “Heh. Sharp ears on this one," Brakkas chuckled, slapping the table. “Good. Maybe you'll last longer than most." The cards hit the table with a solid thud. “Let's see if featherfolk can handle a real hand. It's called Horn & Hide." he said with a smirk, fanning the heavy cards like a showman. “A proper game. Not like that pretty little Skycourt nonsense you lot shuffle."

Veska's feathers ruffled at the insult, but she said nothing.

Grellith grunted.

“We know it."

Brakkas' grin broadened. “Do you now? Hah! Maybe you've seen a game or two, but you ain't played it like we did back in Braestair. Whole airship, mid-deployment, bellies full of spiced ale, betting blades, horns, and rations. Nothing makes the cards sweeter than the promise of carving through a few Corvanian prides the next day." He gave a snort of fond memories. “Leonin—pfft. Arrogant lot. Easy to gut, but they put up just enough fight to make it fun."

Nelneras, however, remained motionless, eyes calmly tracing the cards.

“Ah," he said softly, “so you prefer games with a touch of blood on them."

Brakkas gave a flat-toothed grin. “Best kind."

As the first cards were dealt with all the subtlety of a war drum, the tension around the table grew thick. Grellith shifted in his seat, feathers flaring, shooting a sideways glance at Veska, whose sharp eyes had narrowed into slits.

Korrin, wide-eyed, leaned in with the awkward desperation of someone realizing they'd stepped into a snare. “We could… always turn in for the night," Korrin whispered, talons fidgeting with the rim of his goblet. “Nothing says we've gotta keep playing."

Veska's beak clicked softly. “Aye, no shame in folding before we lose more than coin," she murmured. “I've no taste for the company."

Nelneras didn't look at them. He calmly adjusted his cards, eyes fixed on the hand before him, as if their concerns were no more than idle tavern chatter. “Stay," he said softly, almost idly. “The night's young, and besides—" he flicked a card into his talons with elegant precision, “—it would be rude to leave before giving our guests a proper welcome."

He knew Horn & Hide. Not from chance.

He remembered farmhands and caravan guards from the northern roads, who, after too much ale and under the assumption that a curious young “human" boy was no more than a passerby, had happily boasted and bickered over the rules late into many harvest nights. Nelneras watched, listened, and quietly memorized. Years later, he had seen it again — scratched into the margins of worn mercenary journals he collected, explained half-heartedly between accounts of skirmishes against the Corvanians. There were even minotaur veterans who had, unaware of who he truly was, drunkenly shared tips on “winning like a proper bull".

To Nelneras, it was never just a game. It was a lesson, another piece of understanding about a people who valued strength, cunning, and wagers steeped in blood and pride. He knew the tells. The bluffs. The patterns of bets. He knew the superstitions, how minotaur's rarely trusted an opening hand without a “Horn" card, how they overvalued certain risky combinations out of bravado. He had never played against actual minotaurs before.

But he knew.

And that knowledge coiled beneath his feathers like a serpent waiting to strike, as Brakkas laid down the first card with the self-assured grin of one who believed himself the only predator at the table.

Veska narrowed her eyes. “You're serious."

Glancing up, Nelneras gave her a gentle nod, “Very," he said simply.

Korrin swallowed. “Oh… oh feathers."

The minotaurs played as they lived—brutally, brash, and determined to grind all beneath their hooves. Their cards slammed upon the table like battle standards driven into blood-soaked earth. They jeered and growled with every wager, speaking over each other, boasting of conquest and carnage as though they could simply crush luck itself beneath their weight.

And yet, amidst the chaos, they were not entirely fools.

Despite Brakkas' loudmouthed bluster, there was a mind behind the brute. He played with a rough but practiced hand, sharp enough to be dangerous. His companions followed in kind — Gorim, sly and calculating, adjusted his plays when others weren't looking; Rukka, reckless, favored bold plays that matched his inflated ego; and Droth, slow but deliberate, never wasted a card unless it served a purpose.

Nelneras, poised like a cat before a fire, played them all the same.

Every card they threw, every drink they downed, every crude remark flung at the passing staff was measured, countered, and redirected by Nelneras with the care of a painter shaping a masterpiece. His calm never wavered, not even when Brakkas slammed his fist down to rattle the coins, nor when Rukka leered at a passing gryphoness only to receive a flurry of curses from Veska under her breath.

More than once, Nelneras swept a hand. Subtle, precise, and with just enough flare to sting.

Brakkas' eyes narrowed with every lost pile, teeth grinding bitterroot into pulp. Gorim scowled, Rukka frothed like a spurred ox, and even Droth gave a low grunt of disapproval. But Nelneras only smiled, never missing a beat, never giving them room to recover.

“Ah, look at that. Another hand well earned," Nelneras said, voice like silk sliding over steel as he pulled the winnings toward him.

Korrin and Veska gave involuntary, if nervous, chuckles. Despite their earlier protests, they had remained, his stalwart companions at this battlefield of cards and pride. They endured the minotaurs' insults, the casual threats masked as jokes, and the suffocating weight of their presence.

Nelneras took a long sip from his cup and, with a sly curve to his beak, regarded his friends fondly.

“And what fine allies I've had tonight," he murmured warmly, loud enough to carry. “Veska, sharp as ever, talons delicate enough to fillet even the thickest hide." He cast her a glance full of teasing admiration.

Veska blinked, feathers ruffling.

“You'll owe me for this later," she hissed through a crooked smile.

“And dear Grellith," Nelneras continued, letting the name roll with gentle mockery, “ever the loyal hawk, strong, stoic, yet gentle enough to endure even this company." He gestured subtly at the scowling bulls.

Grellith snorted, but there was no mistaking the reluctant pride in his puffed chest.

Then, finally, Nelneras leaned slightly toward Korrin, voice softening with playful sincerity.

“And Korrin, bless those feathers. A heart pure enough to shame the moon itself, and the only one brave enough to make me laugh tonight."

Korrin blushed so fiercely he nearly fumbled his cards onto the floor.

“What's this?" Brakkas sneered, gesturing lazily at Nelneras with a thick-fingered hand. “All that feather-fluffin'? Save it for the brothel stalls, bird." His voice dropped into a mockingly soft coo, “Bet you're real popular down by the skyports, though? Chirpin' sweet nothings till some poor bastard coughs up a few coins." He gave a coarse chuckle, not waiting for approval, but satisfied with his own filth. “Ain't no one here payin' for your pretty little praises, so quit squawkin' and play the damned cards."

“My dear brute," Nelneras said smoothly, “you mistake affection for desperation. I flatter because I enjoy it. You confuse it for begging because that is, no doubt, the only way you've ever received it."

Brakkas gave a grunt, clearly hearing the words but not catching their weight. His grin returned without hesitation. “Hah! Well, long as you enjoy losin' too." he snorted, slapping the table, pleased with himself.

The minotaurs behind him chuckled along, none of them seeming to grasp the subtle knife Nelneras had just slid between the ribs.

The games ground on, slow as the turn of the seasons and just as inevitable. Brakkas played with the same vigor he brought to every conquest — loud, bold, and forceful, slamming cards down like weapons. Yet, for all his strength, he lacked subtlety. His every move screamed with his intent; his bluffs were obvious to anyone who knew how to listen.

And read them Nelneras did.

Where Brakkas threw cards like a bull charging a gate, Nelneras danced through the game like wind through feathers, graceful, quiet, inevitable. He let them think they had him on several rounds, folding when necessary, feeding their egos, before sweeping entire pots with effortless precision. Coins piled before Nelneras like a growing tide.

The minotaurs were not blind to it, though they struggled to comprehend it. Brakkas? His confidence curdled into something darker. His boasts faded, replaced by grunts and sour muttering. His pawing at the barmaids slowed. His once-overflowing cup was left untouched. And each time Nelneras claimed another hand, the big bull's shoulders stiffened a little more.

“Another?" Nelneras remarked softly, sliding the latest winnings toward himself with delicate care, talons tapping lightly on the polished stone. “Ah, fortune does seem fond tonight."

Korrin looked as if he might explode, shifting anxiously in his seat. Veska, for all her usual sharp tongue, had grown strangely silent, eyes darting between the table and the patrons beyond who were beginning to watch. Grellith muttered under his breath, but no one dared interrupt.

Brakkas' eye twitched. He slammed his next card onto the table, horns dipping slightly as he leaned forward. “Enough!" he barked, nostrils flaring. “This is Thor's ass!" His fist struck the table hard enough to rattle cups and shuffle the loose coins. “You're cheatin', bird." he growled, pointing a thick finger directly at Nelneras. “No feather-plumed fop plays Horn & Hide like that. Not without cheatin'."

Nelneras did not flinch. His calm remained unbroken, though from the corner of his eye he could see Veska stiffen, Grellith's feathers flare, and poor Korrin's eyes widen in panic. Slowly, with the grace of one entirely in control, Nelneras gathered the scattered coins from the pot with a delicate motion and set them before him.

“Like the dragons of the Celanthian Concord, whose rule endured the collapse of empires, my temperament is... calm." He let the words hang, as if addressing no more than a curious child. “I assure you," he continued, “I have not swindled you out of your coin." His eyes, calm and sharp as polished gem, met Brakkas without blinking. “Perhaps it is not treachery you taste... but the bitterness of overestimating your own skill."

Chair legs shrieked against the wood, like claws raking down a tree as Brakkas leaned forward, eyes brimming with fire. His upper lip curled, baring broad, yellowed teeth as a low snarl built at the back of his throat. “Skill?" he spat, “I've bested bulls twice your size and fleeced more gold than you've got feathers." He reached for his mug, downed it in a single swig, and slammed it onto the table with enough force to rattle the cards.

“And don't you go flappin' your beak about dragons," Brakkas growled. “Filthy, scaly bastards. Every one of them. Celanthian Concord, Bah! Good riddance to 'em. Only good dragon's one hangin' from a war horn strap back at a house's hold." Brakkas let out a bark of laughter, trying to smother the crack in his pride. “Don't tell me you've gone soft for 'em, feather-boy. Greedier than halflings, worse than Leonin, and twice as ugly."

For a moment, Nelneras said nothing. His gaze fell quietly to the cards before him, though his mind was elsewhere, pulled unbidden into the darker corridors of history. He knew the stories better than most. The tales were told in song and whispered around campfires of dragons devouring livestock, razing cities for gold, or preying upon maidens with cruel, cunning smiles.

He knew of dragons who became little more than tyrants, who saw lesser races as cattle, whose power had blackened the skies of more than one kingdom. And though those stories were often exaggerated by frightened bards, there were truths beneath them, ugly truths. Nelneras, after all, was not naive. Minotaur, especially those who followed Korde, the god of battle and war, often gave praise to his warriors who could slay a dragon and bathe in their blood.

Nelneras let out a slow breath. His voice, when it came, carried a quiet, tired edge. “And yet, for every butcher, there has been a shield. The Dawn-Caller, who broke the siege of the Crystal Sea. Drake of the Verdant Spires, who gave her life to seal the Abyss rift beneath Cortona Thicket. Or even Embershade, who laid down flame and fang to bring peace between the dwarven clans of the Foggy Mountains." His eyes lifted, sharp and steady. “There are good dragons. I have read of them. I have seen them."

The statement was lost between the minotaur's horns. Brakkas snorted, leaned back and signaled to the staff for another drink. “Pff, good dragons?" His laughter came rough and ugly. “You've been puffin' too much of that rabbitweed, bird. Here I thought it was the halflings who were too stupid to avoid it." He slapped the gryphon on the haunches who handed him a new tankard of ale, “Heh," Brakkas went on, grinning darkly. “Maybe that's it. Got you all loose headed. Or maybe—" his eyes narrowed with crude delight, “—maybe you just want yourself some scale dick or pussy, eh? That it? Heard tell some gryphs fancy themselves desperate enough."

Brakkas leaned back with a satisfied grin, snorting through his thick nose. “Hells, maybe you've already had a taste. Wouldn't surprise me. Gryphons have always been too eager to bow to whatever's bigger than them." He barked a laugh, crude and self-amused, then with a dismissive wave, shifted gears. “But you feather-fluffs and that paladins pet lizard Crimson Sky garbage?" He spat the words like a bitter root. “Bah. The so-called harmony you Lumarians squawk about — pitiful. Waste of breath and ink."

He leaned forward, eyes glinting with darker purpose “You want the truth? We did the right thing, hunted every scaly wretch in Braestair 'til the mountains reeked of cooked dragon. Our halls? Lined with their skulls. The only thing we and the Leonin cowards can agree on. Only good dragon is a dead one."

Even to such a statement, Nelneras' didn't flinch. He simply studied the minotaur for a long, measured moment, as if considering something beneath notice. The flickering lamplight caught in his turquoise eyes, steady as a mountain and twice as old. He let silence be his first answer, silence thick enough to be felt. At last, he set his goblet down with delicate precision, his talons resting lightly against the polished wood.

“Yes… skulls," he said, softly, letting the word hang like smoke. “That's what you're most proud of, isn't it? A hall of hollow heads—silent, eyeless, stripped of all that once made them mighty." His gaze sharpened; turquoise eyes steady as flame behind glass. “You boast as if placing bones on a mantle makes you the master of what they once were. As if slaying a dragon grants you, its wisdom. It's graceful. Its strength."

His talons traced the table's edge as he spoke, not looking at the cards now, but directly at the minotaur who sat across from him, puffed up with blood-soaked legacy. “You surround yourself with remnants of what you can never be. You mistake possession for understanding, and trophies for honor."

He leaned in slightly, his voice barely above a whisper to make Brakkas lean closer just to hear the blade come down. “And I suspect... deep down... you know it."

Around them, the mood shifted. Tables further away stilled. Halflings tucked coin purses tight and tried to make themselves small. A pair of dwarves near the hearth raised their brows, low voices trailing off as they turned slightly in their seats. Overhead a few perched gryphons leaned forward on instinct, feathers half-ruffled.

Feathers shifted, wings bristling in alarm. Veska's voice came low and sharp, barely louder than a breath. “Valaros… The hell do you think you're doing…egging him on."

Grellith's wing flicked slightly, talons curling against the edge of the table. “Everyone knows best not to insult a…" He gulped, seeing the seething heat in Brakka's eyes, “Minotaur's honor, are you mad?"

The big bull's nostrils flared wide, breath coming hard as his thick fingers curled into fists against the table. The sound of knuckles tightening echoed like creaking leather.

“You feathered little shit." he growled low, venom lacing every word. A hoof scraped against the stone floor beneath the table, steadying his bulk as he leaned forward. “You dare question my honor?" The words weren't asked, they were spat, thick and hot, like the steam from a war-forged blade. “You sit there, sippin' and smirkin', while speakin' about things you know nothing about."

His voice rose louder, drawing gazes from across the hall. Tables stilled. Dice went silent. Even the music drifting faintly from the Feathered Hall dimmed in memory, if not in volume. Brakkas jabbed a finger into the table, close enough to Nelneras' goblet to rattle it.

“I've split open Leonin and giants that would make you piss your fur. I've carved my way through wings, scales, and fire! I've earned every skull, every horn, every damned cheer in Braestair's halls. And you... you—"

He faltered for the barest second, words catching behind the snarl, searching for a label vile enough. “You're just a clever-tongued little claw-licker who thinks wit is worth more than blood."

Brakkas surged upward like a storm rising from a dark horizon, horns lowered, eyes blazing, hooves echoing upon the polished stone floor with the ringing promise of ruin. The hall held its breath as the minotaur lunged forward, a titan of wrath and muscle, his fist drawn back like a battering ram aimed squarely at the gryphon before him

Through it all, Nelneras remained calm, unmoving, poised as if carved from ivory and gold, eyes steady as twin suns in the depths of twilight. There was no fear, no flinch; only the serene certainty of a predator fully aware of the futile threat rushing toward him.

The blow came swift and fiercely, strong enough to crush bones or shatter stone—but it never landed.

In a heartbeat, Nelneras' paw rose with effortless grace, catching Brakkas fist as if he were no more than an unruly child swinging a wooden sword. All momentum stopped, silence echoing sharply, punctuated only by the strangled gasp slipping from Brakkas' lips. Nelneras smiled faintly, head tilted slightly as though mildly intrigued by this small inconvenience.

Then, with an almost playful ease, he struck back, not a blow of rage or desperation, but a deceptively simple sweep of his paw, imbued with his natural draconic strength. A rare talent indeed, but Nelneras always was one for overachieving.

Brakkas hurtled backwards like a stone flung from a trebuchet. He smashed through a sturdy oak table, splinters flying, drinks scattering, coins spinning across the polished floor. The once-proud warrior sprawled in a heap of twisted limbs and cracked wood, stunned and humiliated, unable even to summon a groan.

A thick silence settled over the hall like fresh snow after an avalanche, patrons frozen mid-motion, eyes wide, mouths agape.

Nelneras glanced at his paw as though surprised, then chuckled gently, a rich and melodic sound. “Hmm, it appears I don't know my own strength."

Korrin blinked, gaze shifting from the wreckage to Nelneras and back again, his voice barely above a whisper. "Well, that'll teach him to behave himself, won't it?"

In the stunned quiet that followed, the three remaining minotaurs stared at their fallen leader with jaws slackened, ears pinned, and pride visibly withered. One swallowed, another shifted on their hooves, even the silent one appeared unsure, soaking in the fate of their champion.

Nelneras turned toward them, eyes glinting gently in the low lantern-light, his voice flowing forth as calmly and smoothly as ever, “Gentlemen," he offered softly, extending one paw to gesture warmly toward the ruined table and their sprawled leader. “Your friend enjoyed the experience so thoroughly he has been left quite speechless. Perhaps any of you would care to partake as well?"

Gorim stepped backward hastily, bumping into Rukka, who stumbled in turn into Droth, hooves scraping and snorting nervously. They cast quick, alarmed glances among themselves, looking like boys caught raiding an orchard rather than proud warriors.

Without a word spoken, they quickly crossed the wreckage-strewn floor and gathered Brakkas from the tangled ruins of wood and spilled ale. He groaned softly, his head lolling in confusion as they hoisted him to his unsteady hooves.

Brakkas blinked, swaying drunkenly, clearly dazed. “Did…did anyone get the name of that blasted airship?" he mumbled, hardly able to lift his head.

His companions, embarrassed and awkward, avoided looking directly at the gryphon responsible for their shame. They supported their humbled leader as they stumbled hastily toward the exit, desperate to escape the watchful eyes and quiet chuckles of the room.

Nelneras watched them go, unruffled, feathers smooth and neat. A faint, satisfied smile touched his beak, quiet amusement sparkling in his gaze as the hall filled gradually with whispers, then open laughter.

Turning back toward his companions, he tapped the table gently with his paw and smiled broadly, eyes glinting mischievously. "Now," he began lightly, voice smooth as aged wine, "where were we? Ah, yes—I believe you three were graciously demonstrating the subtle art of losing your coin to me." He cast an amused glance toward the scattered gold and silver across the tabletop, adding softly, "Courtesy of our departed friends, of course."

The hall erupted into laughter, the tense hush dissolving instantly into relief. Patrons clapped talons and hands together, whistles and cheers rising warmly toward Nelneras, approval roaring around him like a tide of gentle thunder.

From behind the bar, the young gryphoness barkeep leaned over with a playful smile and called out boldly, "Any drink you desire, handsome, and if you're so inclined later, there's always room upon my perch."

Another wave of laughter rippled warmly through the crowd. Nelneras responded with a gracious dip of his head, a gentle, dignified chuckle escaping him.

"Such hospitality is rare indeed," he returned, voice carrying like a well-tuned melody. "Perhaps when my friends have grown weary of enriching me, I'll accept your invitation. Until then, I have lessons in humility yet to impart."

The room laughed again, louder, freer, fully restored to good cheer and comfort. Nelneras calmly gathered the cards once more, quiet triumph gleaming gently in his eyes, the subtle curve of his beak speaking clearly of victory—not merely in cards, but in honor.

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