This remains a collaboration with Dither.
> Finn: Commence HEROIC battle.
No way. That’s a GRIFFIN up there. You love the GRIFFIN almost as much as you love MEDIEVAL WEAPONRY.
The poor thing wails in pain and anger as it continues its wheeling descent, finally landing in front of you. Libertina’s enclosure is behind you, but fortunately, the DRAGON sleeps on.
It’s a good thing that UNCLE stuffs tranqs into the cows before freezing them. Even though they take forever to kick in, they do last a good long time.
> Remove thorn from paw thereby soothing savage beast.
That sounds absolutely ridiculous. For one thing, a bullet in the wing is nothing like a thorn in the paw. For another, you’re fairly certain that MUSIC is what you need to soothe a savage beast.
> Use WHITE MAGIC to heal GRIFFIN.
Healing is not one of those things you can just do. Even though MAGIC is a DE FACTO thing that is indisputably REAL, you can’t just use it.
It’s also not very effective in treating bullet wounds. You use SILVER ROUNDS because of being AWESOME and also there are massive amounts of SILVER in your cave-crazy neighbourhood. If there is anything that can resist MAGIC, be it benign or internecine, it is SILVER.
> Make like Dr Doolittle and talk to the GRIFFIN.
Today must be your best day for stupid ideas.
Holding up both hands to show that you have no weapons, you try to do what GRIFFINS do instead of smiling. Your face is the wrong shape for it, but the GRIFFIN appears to get the GIST.
It whines dramatically and limps over to you, favouring a leg that you are pretty sure is definitely not hurt.
GRIFFINS are better than puppies, you tell yourself as you see to its wound.
> Remove bullet.
Apparently, you don’t need to do that. As stupid a blind shot as it was, it was also a clean one.
All you need to do is clean up the wound and bandage it.
> Do that.
You do that.
The GRIFFIN nuzzles you all the while. Your TEENAGE ANGST METRE drops to lethally low levels of WELTSCHMOROSITY due to the sheer monster cuteness.
There are no bandages to be had, but HEROES are suppose to be resourceful. Ignoring the nipple-blistering cold, you tear strips from your shirt.
When you finish, you climb onto the GRIFFIN’S back and urge it to walk home. Your chores are finally completed.
An HEROIC fanfare plays obligingly in your head. You hope it isn’t a hallucination due to the toe-amputating cold.