Countless monsters inhabit the vast expanses of the Divide. Despite the number of known species surpassing one hundred (and with the estimated number reaching the thousands) half of the total monster population is believed to come from two monster species: griffons and the capracoro. Both of these species live in groups, relying on the strength of their numbers to contest against the more individually powerful monsters that roam the wilderness. They are not apex monsters, but they are one of the more common beasts that an explorer might encounter, and thus it is important to understand how to avoid them.

Griffons are the first species of note for any aspiring explorer, as they are one of the simplest monster species to avoid and among the most dangerous when these warning signs are ignored. Individually, a griffon is a Tier 2 (greater) threat, but remember that they travel and hunt in groups numbering anywhere from two to six griffons. Be aware that while most griffons are in the Tier 2 threat range, some individuals are stronger, reaching the level of lesser or standard Tier 3 threats. Large nests of them have been known to contain individuals that rank a Tier 4 threat level.

The appearance of a griffon is a combination of an eagle and a feline, with the front portion resembling an eagle and the back a feline. They have three pairs of limbs: the back two pairs being those of a predatory cat, and at the front, the talons of an eagle. Griffons possess two pairs of wings. Most griffons are between seven and thirteen feet long, with their wingspan often surpassing twenty feet in length. Exceptions to these size rules always exist. Their coloration is a mix of brown, white, and gold.

A group of griffons is known as a convocation, and the size of these convocations range anywhere from two to several dozen monsters. A convocation is a territorial group, and once they stake out their home, members rarely range beyond its borders. For a smaller convocation of ten or fewer griffons, this territory may only consist of one or two valleys and their associated peaks, but the larger convocations can envelope much wider swaths of land. Griffons build their nests at high altitude, descending to drink, hunt, and patrol their territory. Thanks to their unique build, they are a threat both on the ground and in the air, though griffons are ambush predators who rarely commit to prolonged engagements on the ground. When defending their territory against rival monsters and humans, however, they often fight to the death.

Smell is the indicator that you are entering the territory of a convocation. Griffons leave their droppings around the perimeter of their territory to ward off other monsters. Their leavings have a distinct, musky odor, accompanied by the scent of rotting meat. If you encounter this aroma, turn back immediately. This is often the only warning sign you get.

Excerpt from ‘Dangers of the Divide,’ by Ierne Conmara.

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Vanalath followed Anamu back to the cottage, keeping an eye on the sky the whole time. The monsters were so high that they only appeared to be black specks. The only thing giving them away was their wings. Each of the griffons had four of them: two at the front and two at the rear. They didn’t appear to be hostile, but their presence must have signaled something to Orimo.

They entered the camp to find the ghouls arrayed in something resembling a battle formation. In the five days since their battle with the hunters, one hundred fifty lesser ghouls had been rounded up from all over the valley, and seeing them all assembled like this made for an impressive sight. At least it did until Vanalath remembered how weak the unevolved undead were.

By the entrance to the cottage stood Iokina. She was surveying the undead, paying only occasional attention to the griffons above, apparently trusting Orimo with that task. Around her were her shamblers, numbering seven strong. There were only six of them the other day, so the seventh must have been added recently.

He approached Orimo, who stood at the front, a strung longbow hanging off his shoulder. He squinted his eyes as he observed the circling monsters, as if trying to figure out their intentions. Shortly, the sound of crunching grass from behind alerted Vanalath that Kalaki had joined up. All four main fighters had gathered.

Vanalath asked.

Orimo replied,

Orimo laughed without taking his eyes off the griffons.

Vanalath didn’t reply.

he continued.

The sound of a door slamming open ended the conversation, and Rellika came striding up. She was… different. She had fixed her unkempt hair, tying it down her back into a long braid. Her frayed robe was gone, a set of light armor in its place, providing far better protection than Vanalath’s own gear: mismatched animal hides which he had scavenged from the dead hunters. A leather cuirass protected her torso, greaves and vambraces covered her legs and arms, while pads defended her knees and elbows. She also bore a pair of sturdy leather gauntlets, plated partially in metal, making her hands the most protected part of her body. A sword was sheathed at her waist, and she looked ready to use it. Her eyes, armor, and bearing bestowed on her an aura of purpose. As she strode across the field towards them, Vanalath couldn’t help noticing that, despite all her upgrades, her feet remained bare. Strange, with so much armor, for her not to protect them.

She asked Orimo a question in Yaranese, and he gave a short reply.

He needed to learn that language if Rellika was going to continue using it. Not every ghoul could engage in Spirit Speech, though they were all capable of at least understanding it. Rellika numbered among the non-speakers. She understood Spirit Speech, but she couldn’t force her will into her words the way Vanalath, Orimo, Anamu, and Iokina could. He thought it strange, since her strength relied on giving orders.

Rellika and Orimo continued to speak in the incomprehensible tongue. Searching for a translator, the wight’s eyes settled on his Peons. He didn’t trust Anamu to be any good, but seeing as Kalaki didn’t speak at all, he gave in and gestured over the juvenile ghoul.

Anamu asked.

Vanalath explained what he wanted.

The ghoul’s too-wide mouth twitched, and he tentatively began to translate, frowning in concentration.

He continued translating, but the conversation had moved into the territory of suppositions and references obscure enough that even Anamu had no idea what they were talking about, so Vanalath stopped him.

The ghoul was as poor a translator as he had expected, but a few things stood out to him. “Pact-broker” probably referred to the one who mediated between the people and the griffons. Was this an inhabitant of the valley? No, all the people were killed days ago. He lived in the “high west,” wherever that was. Probably in the mountains. But why were they going to collect feathers?

Something occurred to Vanalath as he ruminated on their conversation, and he turned to Anamu.

Anamu nodded.

Vanalath looked away, not wholly satisfied that the ghoul got it. He could sense through his connection with Anamu that Rellika held no sway over him, so it irked him to see the creature acting so subserviently. Worse, he didn’t understand why it bothered him so much, which only resulted in him getting more annoyed. He recognized the spiral for what it was, thankfully, and calmed himself down, remembering Orimo’s words from the other day. He couldn’t let a Brand rule his thoughts.

The conversation ended while Vanalath was still lost in thought. Rellika left Orimo’s side and snapped out a string of commands, and the evolved ghouls began moving in response. Two of them wheeled a hand-pulled cart around to the front, and many more brought out chests from her cottage, loading the cart.

Vanalath strode up to the necromancer.

“I shall take up the frontal position in our marching column alongside Orimo,” he said.

Rellika raised an eyebrow. “You understood my conversation with him?”

She didn’t know he had a translator, but he didn’t correct the misconception.

“I inferred,” he replied, gesturing at the bustling camp.

“Mm. Yes, you may join Orimo. But in that case, may I have your Peons serve as rear guards? We need strong fighters covering our tails.”

“That is fine by me.”

A short silence ensued as they waited for the ghouls to assemble.

He nodded at the griffons overhead. “Why are they acting only now?”

It was earlier than they planned to leave, but only by a few days. Most of the undead had been gathered and trained to understand basic orders, so at least they weren’t caught on the back foot.

“I can’t be certain, but…” Rellika smiled, “I expect it has something to do with the fact that I turned this entire valley into a miasmic waste.”

Ah. That much should have been obvious, in hindsight.

“Will there be a fight?”

“No,” she said. “Not if everything goes according to plan. But I don’t know exactly why the griffons are acting like this, plan for the worst.”

Vanalath eyed the monsters again. They appeared like nothing more than birds at this distance, but if they were enough to drive Rellika from the valley, then they deserved their titles as monsters.

They departed within five minutes, heading west along the river, towards the lakeside town of Boling. Vanalath watched with interest as Orimo assembled the ghouls, placing each of them in specific positions within the column. Those with Rellika’s supplies were at the center, guarded by only a few evolved ghouls. The weaker undead made up the bulk of their center. Most of the evolved ghouls, numbering roughly twenty-five in total, were concentrated at the front and rear of the column, though at the tail end, behind Kalaki and Anamu and the other evolved, Orimo had placed a smattering of lesser ghouls. These were bait, an intentional display of weakness. The lesser ghouls trailing alone behind would hopefully be targeted first if the griffons decided to attack their forces, giving the evolved soldiers nearby by a chance to strike back.

said Orimo, who was marching at the front of the column with Vanalath.

Vanalath asked.

Orimo grunted.

Vanalath glanced at him. That didn’t sound like the hunter he knew. What had him so antsy?

The griffons had followed them from the cottage, lending certainty to the fact that they were being monitored. Vanalath squinted, spotting a shape join the others in the distance. A fourth griffon had reinforced their ranks, and the circle the monsters formed over their heads expanded to compensate.

Orimo cursed.

He yelled out something in Yaranese, and after a word of affirmative from Rellika at the middle of the column, he sped up. The ghouls kept the pace, half running and half stumbling, some of the lessers even falling over. Before they reached Boling, they veered off from the river, hanging a right along a dirt path that led up into the mountains.

As they left the Cradle behind, Vanalath spared the valley below a glance. The brown and dead basin was speckled with grays and blacks, and not a single hint of green. A blot on the plains marked the boulder that sheltered Rellika’s hut. It looked tiny from his vantage point. Other than that, all three settlements along the river were visible. Soon, ruins would be the only sign that people once lived there.

This valley was his birthplace. It was where he had hunted, where he devoured and grew from a mindless undead into a wight. He and the others had taken this place for all it was worth, leaving bones and ash in their wake. There was nothing left for him here, no more room to grow. As he turned his back on the Cradle, he realized that he might never return. Nevertheless, there was no shred of sentimentality within him. He would move on to greater things. That was the way of the world.

After five hours of climbing the increasingly steep incline, they reached what appeared to be their destination: a plateau of rock a quarter-mile across and several miles long. It was in the shape of a rough crescent, partially encircling the Cradle far below. At the opposite end of the plateau, a wall of unsurpassable rock that climbed up to dizzying heights cut off their route. As far as they had climbed, there seemed to always be something higher. The mountains all around looked just as tall as ever.

What Vanalath first noticed about this place was the smell. Even the winds did nothing to disperse the pungent odor here. Dung and rotting flesh mixed, telling him that this place had known the presence of many beasts. He touched the pommel of his sword, but Orimo placed a hand on his shoulder.

he said.

His eyes flickered up, noting the fifth griffon circling above.

They continued, Orimo’s assurance doing little to quell the sensation of danger—mingled with excitement—Vanalath felt rising in his chest. This was a place frequented by the same monsters they were fleeing from. Something was stirring.

The rocky plateau was very flat, and no plant life existed on it save for a thin film of dead-looking moss. As they progressed, various bits of debris appeared. Fragments of bone, piles of dung, and feathers were strewn about at random. The feather lay in puddles or were wedged between rocks, such that the wind didn’t carry them away. They were mostly brown and white, but occasionally a bright yellow, orange, or red one might appear, jewels amidst coal. These vivid feathers were smaller and softer than the brown and white ones, and the sight of them was familiar to Vanalath.

After a moment, he realized why. The brightly colored feathers that littered the plateau were the same that once decorated the headdresses of the hunters.

Turning to Orimo, he asked,

The hunter shot him a sideways glance.

Vanalath thought about his words a moment, then asked,

Orimo was silent for a moment before speaking,

He sighed.

Vanalath glanced back at the column. At some point an order had been given out, and ghouls were collecting the bright feathers, sticking them in their hair or stuffing them into the collars of their ragged shirts or their belts. It seemed a flimsy protection to him, but when Orimo offered him an orange feather, he tucked it behind an ear all the same.

A thought occurred to him. This magical compact between the humans and griffons—if it existed—was it possibly anything like the pact he shared with Orimo?

asked Vanalath.

Orimo bent down, picking up a white shard of bone and holding it between two fingers. Many of the bones on the plateau appeared to be those of fish or small animals, but some did not. The shard he’d picked up came from a larger creature.

Vanalath observed a pile of dung that sat on the ground nearby. ‘Returning to the sky’ indeed.

he said, keeping those thoughts to himself.

And he meant it. There was something tidy about the process. The weak offered up their flesh to the strong, receiving protection in return. The lengths that humans went to for survival was amusingly extensive.

said Orimo with a wry grin,

Orimo didn’t respond to that. The number of griffons had grown to six.

As they approached the end of the plateau, a cleft in the stone wall appeared before them. A cave? No, there was a stone door, set into a deep arch. This was a home that someone had built into the mountainside.

said Orimo.

He left his companion behind and went to the door, knocking twice. He waited patiently, but no answer came. He turned back, shaking his head. A muttered curse made Vanalath glance over his shoulder. Rellika had approached at some point, her footfalls entirely silent. Now, she bore a grimace.

“Follow me,” she said to Vanalath, and strode forward without waiting for a response.

He did so, his curiosity getting the better of him. Orimo opened the door for them, and it swung open on well-oiled hinges. It was unlocked. No, it had no lock in the first place.

He entered the dwelling to find that it was smaller than expected, tinier than even the smallest hut in one of the villages. It was a cave, crudely chiseled from solid stone. It consisted of a single room with a cupboard, a one-person table, and a straw mat for a bed. His eyes fell upon the mat, on which lay a corpse. It was an ancient-looking man, covered in wrinkles and sharp angles. He had shriveled to almost nothing, appearing more skeletal than made of flesh. Had he died of starvation? His mouth was agape, and his eyes had sunk back into his skull, making him appear half a skeleton already. He couldn’t have been dead for that long, as he hadn’t begun to smell. However, there was another scent around this home—not quite decay—but similar in some ways. It was familiar.

Frowning, he observed the rest of the home. Some holes had been cut into the wall, likely for ventilation, but there was nothing else in the way of adornment. On the table there were a few unrecognizable lumps of organic matter. Was it food? If so, it had become inedible long ago. Rellika went straight to the cupboard, flinging it open and revealing the contents inside. A foul stench poured out as if to greet her, and the necromancer reached inside, retrieving a sack that might have once held vegetables. She turned it out onto the floor, and from within spilled a goopy black mess. She took a step back to avoid the splatter.

This contradicted the state of the corpse. The inhabitant of this home was freshly dead, but the state of his cupboard made it seem as if he had been dead for weeks.

A moment of silence passed in the tiny cave-home before Rellika spoke, contemplative.

“I’ve made a mistake,” she said. “I had my doubts, but perhaps I should have confirmed it earlier.”

“And what mistake is that?”

“It happened when we ended the Deathstone ritual. The ritual was supposed to be contained solely within the valley. Nothing should have exceeded the borders of the Cradle. It took me nearly a week after Orimo’s party left to stake out the area of effect myself, so I know for a fact that this place is well outside of its perimeter. Yet miasma reached this place. When you took the Deathstone into your body, it did not absorb all of the miasma that had been generated by the ritual as it should have. The sheer volume of it proved too great, perhaps, which is why I failed to channel it all back into the stone.”

Vanalath frowned. He recalled the black, swirling storm around her cottage, where he had fought with the specters of villagers. Then, he thought of the smaller cyclone within him. It seemed obvious that he couldn’t absorb the entire storm.

“The remainder then leaked out into the surrounding regions,” she continued. “I made a note of it when we left to fight the hunters. What should have been a perfect line of delineation was instead a more gradual corruption of the surroundings.”

Rellika gestured at the mess on the floor. “That is the result of unrestrained miasma. On organics, miasma has a number of aspects, but rot is—”

She cut off, as suddenly as if lightning had struck. Then, without waiting for him, she took off, sprinting out of the home as fast as her feet could carry her. She practically disappeared from his sight. He heard her shouting commands in Yaranese, and when he exited the home afterwards, he saw Orimo and Iokina, surprised but in motion. They were shuffling around the troops, moving them out of a marching column and into a battle formation.

He glanced up at the sky. A seventh griffon had appeared.

At first, he had no idea what it was Rellika had realized, but as Vanalath joined up with his Peons, he began drawing connections. The undertaker had starved. Either that, or the miasma had sucked the life out of him somehow, like it did the plants. If the corpse back in that home was something vital to the Cradle’s griffon pact, then perhaps his death signified a breakdown in relations?

No, that couldn’t be right. If that were the case, Rellika would have leapt into action as soon as she learned that the undertaker perished. Whatever role that man fulfilled, his death alone wasn’t enough for the griffons to act like this.

She had realized something else, and whatever it was, it was catastrophic. What would cause the griffons to attack them?

Then he realized it. This was the worst place they could have come.

The griffons were hungry, perhaps even starving. Their food supply was destroyed by Rellika’s wild miasma, and now, they decided to wander up onto the Plateau of Remembrance, the griffon’s traditional dinner plate. Orimo’s worry from earlier was proving itself well-founded.

But, as it turned out, this alone wasn’t the entire truth.

After a minute, Orimo shouted. Something was happening with the griffons. It wasn’t obvious at first, but by straining his eyes, he could tell that one of the figures was growing larger. It was descending.

It was only one, not all seven of them. The other six remained in their lofty positions. That might have been the only reason Rellika ordered Orimo to stand down, who had been prepared to shoot the monster. The two hundred undead waited, all poised for combat as the griffon neared.

The creature plummeted to the ground, unfurling its four wings at the last second to drastically reduce its speed, gliding a short distance before landing before the assembly.

What captured Vanalath’s attention was not the sight of the massive beast, easily over ten feet long and taller than himself. It wasn’t the six limbs that cracked stone beneath it as it slammed into the ground, either. It wasn’t the nearly golden mane of feathers that encircled the griffon’s neck, or even the overpowering scent that warned of imminent danger.

Instead, it was the small object that it carried in its beak that drew Vanalath’s focus. The griffon dropped the object not twenty feet from Rellika, then stared at her, as if waiting for some reply. Vanalath noted that Orimo, who had slightly lowered his bow after it landed at a distance, was once again lifting it. And Rellika wasn’t stopping him.

Vanalath came to the front, wary of a sudden charge by the beast. He reached Rellika’s side, where he could get a better look at the thing lying on the ground.

It was the size of a large dog, but that pile of slightly soggy feathers was no pet. It was—or had been—a creature. It was mostly orange, with several yellow patches popping up here and there. A ring of red circled what must have been its neck. Most revealing were its eyes: two small, glassy beads that stared vacantly into the distance.

The large griffon began pacing back and forth. Tension rolled off of the monster in waves.

“Another aspect of miasma,” whispered Rellika, “is sickness. The young and elderly are especially susceptible.”

The griffon screeched, and the sound it emitted was so powerful that the gust of wind blowing his hair back wasn’t entirely imagined.