Shortbeak had barely noticed the middle-aged griffon as he passed until he spoke, so focused was she on the unfolding scene. He was short, with white feathers on his head and his wings, his coat a pale yellow that matched the shadows of his brown eyes. You couldn’t see most of his pelt though, covered as it was by piecemeal leather armour and tightly bound belts and bandoliers filled with All-Maker knew what, with nothing more than a small, cracked mace at his side for protection that looked like it was made out of wood. She had seen this guy floating about before, usually around taverns. He was there talking to the iron monger not too long ago in fact. What did he think he was doing?