There is a pace somewhere between rushing and creeping slow.  That is the speed of the griffon's descent on Miaren.  It is not speeding over the mattresses of grass, but it is hardly ambling.  It will not be letting her get away.  The pouring play of gold and bronze comprising its feline frame sends its terrific mass across the space between them in what seems but a matter of a few bounding steps.<br/><br/>Soon Miaren finds herself in the shade of a cypress behind her, in a bowl of emerald grass flanked by petunias of formal indigo: All the bright colors and lush comforts of a playroom - and with a storybook monster stalking close enough to feel it breathing her scent directly from her bare and burning-tender breasts.<br/><br/>The blade of its beak skims near the high and darkening shelf of Miaren's breasts; it skims their glossiness with the point.  Feline paws the size of serving plates plant on either side of her.  The wings flash to curtain the sky.<br/><br/>The whole griffon looms, the heat and force and avian speed of it corralling Miaren as it seems to wait on her.  It glares to pin her to the ground.  It raises its shoulders to suggest she is below them.  It does not growl or brandish or bite.<br/><br/>It waits, regal, to either dispense mercy or wrath.