To the Gryfala, I marshal a monumental attempt at an impassive face so as not to betray how her appearance tweaks my sanguinary urges towards all females of her kind. Then I set her straight. “If you think to wait for humans to collect enough stone to build a rookery, then you’d better have devised a way to live about three extra lifetimes. Princess,” I tack on. On paper it would seem respectful, but I utter it in the same tone one might say you pus-weeping blight.
The Gryfala’s lashes lower, but her smile widens enough to reveal her fangs. Her wings flick slightly before they refold—feathers, not the leathery skin like her hobs. If one appreciated the overall appearance of a Gryfala, this one would be pleasing.
Then again, inarguably, they all are.
When her attractive lids (each one colored by hob-wing powder, probably expertly applied rather than marked so fetchingly by chance) rise enough to allow her eyes to meet mine, her gaze is intrigued, curious.
It’s making me uncomfortable. Meanwhile, her hobs are beginning to look alarmed by her interest in me—which only increases my sense of discomfort. My irritation flares, because I don’t become rattled anymore. I’m an older, wiser (and some would say more bitter) Rakhii. I do the rattling around here—literally, if I can get away with it.
I harden my tone. “I have a quarry to oversee. We’re done here unless you want bragging rights over a human-made model-sized tower—”
“I’ll take it,” the Gryfala interrupts. “Put me down for a human-built model.”
“—you… you’ll…” I’m stunned.
“Take it,” the Gryfala prompts, fangs still flashing, her smile turning playful. “And you, if you’re—”
I hold up a hand to silence her. I’m not even furious or outraged like I normally would be. Like I was certain I was about to be. Because my brain is turning this custom order over in my mind. It’s a bizarre request; Gryfalas prize precision, right down to the shape of the rocks that make up their rookeries. When building a fortress for a Gryfala, it’s a matter of course to cut each stone square. It’s time-consuming, it’s expensive, and it doesn’t matter how outlandish the need for this level of uniformity is (a rookery could be cobbled together with various sized stone, easily)—it’s necessary. Gryfala require painstaking accuracy in nearly all things.
Humans though simply do not see the world in the same way. They don’t mind all the little broken shards and odd bits of stone they collect being slapped into mortar and calling it a wall. Grudgingly, I can admit that they are like Rakhii in this openness they have towards simpler, more fluid design.
But this princess standing before me desires what the humans are having. She wants something built in a human-approved style, and she wants it made by their slow human hands. Why?
The novelty. It’s all about the novelty of it.
That’s what’s driving the Gryfala’s interest. She only wants something made by one of these new and strange aliens because they’re new and strange aliens.
She probably has the mistaken impression that they’re special.
From out of nowhere, as if the mere act of considering her kind conjured her, Gracie appears. “My team can create whatever you want.”
What a lie. Humans can’t so much as make it to their shifts on time. My ears slap back and my chest broadens with my breath because I’m about to bellow at her to remove herself before I toss her across the quarry (carrying a pup or not, I don’t care)—but then she looks the Gryfala dead in the eye and says “But it’s going to cost you.”
I pause.
The Gryfala has gone still, all her focus on perhaps the first human she’s ever spoken to. It’s peculiar, that humans look a fair bit like Gryfala. Plainer, sure, and more vulnerable, yes, but they are enough like them in appearance that you’d expect similar behaviors. Such as Gryfala-to-Gryfala aggression. Princesses often leave rookeries younger than their sires would prefer because the interactions with their dams (i.e., the whole of their relationship) have become untenable. Dangerous, even. Gryfala will fight viciously if allowed close enough to each other.
A good deal of a hobs’ job is to act as a buffer between Gryfala when the need arises. Otherwise, the female gender of their race avoids each other with extreme care.
Gracie doesn’t appear affected in the slightest at the sight of this princess. Then again, I’ve witnessed her interacting with her mate’s dam, and