This is in response to Carla's Friday the 13th Full Moon Challenge.

                   Style:  drama/thriller   FK characters:  Nicholas

                   Feeling a vague uneasiness, Nicholas de Brabant strode over to his sire's
                   desk and read the current date on the new-styled calendar--(a recent
                   purchase by LaCroix who had found it amusing that the late Pope Gregory XIII
                   had had the hubris to 'fix' the ordering of mortal years):

                   Sixth day of the week, October 13th, of the 1591st day of the Lord.

                   Unconsiously, he sucked in a deep breath.  Gregory may have changed  the
                   name of the day, but memory and *time* itself was unchanged.

                   It was the anniversary of... that day.
                   ~~~~

                   It had such a quiet night all those years ago.

                   A night like this one, when the autumn chill had just begun to plague the
                   nights with a vengeance.  Then, as now, a full moon's light created
                   grotesque parodies of objects upon the ground.

                   Nicholas couldn't help but shudder in rememberance.

                   ~~~~~~~~~~Flashback~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                   He was hiding from master again.  (Sigh... When was he NOT either hiding or
                   planning to escape from his father's ire ever since their...difference...of
                   opinion on certain matters?)  At any rate,  he had chosen to walk through a
                   dense forest rather than risk being caught in town..  The action was not
                   totally logical---his keeper's methods of tracking him were not confined to
                   mere eyesight after all--his pursuer being a born hunter, but
                   psychologically it felt safer.  Though---Nicholas thought with some
                   apprehension as he felt the small hairs on the back of his neck
                   stiffen---maybe there was something to following logic.

                   Because there was an aura of not quite... right..about this place.  Oh, the
                   oak trees looked normal enough.  So did everything else that he trained his
                   eyes on.  And yet *something* was off.

                   Something... dangerous.

                   Nervously, de Brabant listened in the gloom while expanding his search for
                   whatever was wrong, cursing the cold air as he did so---he had always hated
                   being cold.  Could his master have found him already?  Was that why this
                   feeling of coming dread was slowly creeping over him---his master, like some
                   great enraged predator, was getting ready to pounce?  And yet he could not
                   sense the other anywhere nearby.

                   Nicholas snorted at himself.  Who was he kidding?  *When* had he ever been
                   able to sense his father when the hunter didn't desire him to do so?  Damn
                   it, he didn't feel cut out for this!  Well, there was no sense angstying
                   about it any further.  If he was here, then Nicholas would just have to
                   defend himself as best he could until the other finished pounding him into
                   the ground.

                   Again.

                   An owl hooted from the tree above him---practically on his head by the sound
                   of it---, startling him into stumbling forward unto the ground.  Cursing at
                   his fear-induced clumsiness, Nicholas turned around on his haunches in order
                   to cast an annoyed glare at the bird--

                   And felt the cold blood within his veins drop to his feet.

                   Great Mother of God and all the Saints Above!

                   Growing up in Brabant Castle, Nicholas had at times seen pictures of such
                   beasts.  But only on tapestries and herald banners.  Not once---ever!---had
                   anyone spoken of them as real creatures.  Demons, witches, warlocks---even
                   the existence of the undead were given at least some credence if only in the
                   primal fears that were let loose after consuming copious drink.  Many were
                   the times he had, himself, delighted in scarying his little sister, Fleur,
                   with such tales of horror, playacting the parts while she squealed at him.

                   But none had spoken of this being real.  Never this.

                   Scaled foreclaws grasping the protesting branch tightly, the thing balanced
                   itself in order to casually peck at the wheaten fur on its flank.  Wide,
                   feathered wings spread out to aid it as it delicately removed whatever small
                   irritation had claimed its attention.  Lit by patches of moonlight that had
                   somehow managed to break through  the canopy of leaves, the soft quills
                   rustled quietly as they shifted every few seconds to keep the large body
                   upright; chocolate brown gliding upon chocolate brown.

                   "G-griff-fin?"

                   The stuttered squeak escaped out of his mouth before Nicholas could stop
                   them.  As he feared, the sound of his voice caused the unlikely beast to
                   pause and straighten.   He found himself caught by large, orange-fire eyes.
                   Again there was the odd sound like a soft hooting.  But deeper, more
                   resonant than any avian.

                   Without warning, the dark wings spread out further and Nicholas hastily
                   scrambled backwards through damp leaves like a crab.

                   Not fast enough!  Sharp talons grasped ahold of his woven tunic near his
                   shoulders, while a heavier rear paw immobilized his right leg merely by
                   pressing its weight against his knee joint.  He screamed.  And saw the
                   beaked mouth open wide, thin tongue flexing as it lapped up the air he had
                   expelled as if it was a prized treat.

                   Horrified beyond words, Nicholas reached up with his hands in hopes of
                   knocking the creature from him.  The folded wings effortlessly batted his
                   arms away.  Then it lowered itself on top of him.

                   For a moment Nicholas thought that he would be crushed under it, but the
                   griffin was either keeping its whole weight from him, or it was not as heavy
                   as it had seemed.  However---crushed or not---he found that he could now not
                   move at all save his hands and head.  Flexing his wrists, his fingers came
                   in contact with silken fur and soft feathers.  Near hysterical with fear,
                   the thought passed through Nicholas' mind that at least he would die warm.

                   Now wasn't *that* a reassuring thought, he almost giggled aloud.

                   The orange eyes regarded him serenely.  Again it opened its beak---and began
                   to delicately groom the blonde hair of its captive, gentley pulling on first
                   one wavy lock, then another.  Nicholas willed himself not to flinch until it
                   was finished, keeping his eyes either shut or staring intently at the
                   patterns of feathers that covered the thing's neck.  Was this breathing
                   nightmare so fastidious that it *cleaned* all of its meal before consuming
                   it?

                   Grooming down, the eagle-ish head lifted enough for him to notice that their
                   surroundings had changed a bit.  The woods were blurred by a greyish mist.
                   In fact, everywhere he looked was muted in greyish tones.  Far away he heard
                   the sound of his master calling his name.  As much as he feared him,
                   Nicholas hoped that his father would stay away---he didn't want the griffin
                   to attack and kill him too.  Taking a deep breath, he yelled out a warning
                   for him to stay away.  Like lightning, the griffin's beak hovered over his
                   open mouth.  The scream disappearing down the gaping maw.  Blue eyes went
                   wide.

                   The creature had EATEN his voice!  Pulled the scream right out of him and
                   swallowed it whole!

                   Above him the griffin's body thrummed as it began to purr in satisfaction.
                   Nicholas, on the other hand, felt strangely empty---or near empty.  Like he
                   had lost a large chunk of something dear.  Almost, he opened his mouth to
                   say something, fearing that his very ability of speech might have been
                   snatched from him.  Only the suspicion that that too would be consumed kept
                   him from doing so.  Lips pressed tightly together, he waited.

                   After a moment more the griffin rose up off of him and launched itself into
                   the sky.  Nicholas rolled over to see where it flew to, but it had already
                   disappeared into the night.  Gone also was the grey mist.

                   But not the feeling that something was gone.  He took a shuddering breath to
                   say a word of prayer and was relieved when his own voice sounded in his
                   ears.  Shakey, but still there.

                   What then, had the monster taken from him?

                   Something was missing.
 

                   "NICHOLAS!"

                   Sir Henry de Brabant broke through the woods to scowl at his child, forcing
                   the youngster to his feet.  "Nicholas---there you are!  I swear, boy, when
                   this hunting trip is over I am going to tan your hide but properly.  And
                   don't think this running away is going to get you out of your
                   responsibilities.  Where its well and good that you've not only learned how
                   to track, but to somehow hide your own tracks from one as myself, I will not
                   allow you to put off this any longer.  We are not returning home until you
                   have made your first kill, boy, and that is final."  He shook his son for
                   emphasis, but not enough to hurt him.  The last thing he wanted was to
                   lengthen this already overlong training lesson while waiting for the boy to
                   heal up.  *After* they got home---*then* he would discipline the scamp.
                   But---Saints!---it was hard to keep his temper when young Nicholas kept
                   questioning him on why *he* had to kill.  The boy certainly had no qualms
                   about partaking in venison or pheasant.  It was about time he learned how to
                   get his own, though.  He would not have people gossiping that his heir was
                   weak or a coward!

                   Nicholas bowed his head, but not only to avoid the wrathful gaze of his
                   father.  He was looking for something, some proof of what had happened to
                   back up his story.  However...

                   There was not one trace of the griffin.  Not a paw print, not a loose hair,
                   not a feather.  Had the whole thing been a nightmare?  His heart said no,
                   though his mind wanted desperately to say yes.  Because inside...

                   Something was missing...

                   He had no real desire to kill, but he would do anything to get home to
                   mamaan and Fleur as quickly as possible.  Anything to leave these awful
                   woods---and its horrific denizen---behind.

                   ~~~~~~~~~End Flashback~~~~~~~~~~~~

                   Closing his eyes, Nicholas willed the memory to fade.

                   It had been a long time since he had thought of that nightmarish event, and
                   never had he spoken of it to anyone.
                   LaCroix, of course, knew.  He had experianced it at least once while
                   drinking from his fledgling as yet too weak to hide anything from his
                   master.  But LaCroix had merely scoffed at him for having held onto childish
                   fears, counseling him to "let your monster fade into the mists of reality
                   like it did before."

                   His master was wise:  he'd been around forever---so he said.  If he said
                   that griffins were but dreamstuff, then who was Nicholas to argue?

                   And yet...

                   Something was missing...
                   =====================================
                   fini