I knocked its crown from its head in our ferocious combat for life and victory. The cowardly nature of the serpent was strong in this beast made of gold and ivory and granite. I crushed its throat, but that would not be enough. I bled dry whatever ichor flowed through it and I broke its limbs and snapped its wings, but it still escaped me.

I did not let it live of my own choice, I let it live because I would die if I stayed any longer. Frostbite crept into my toes and I became ever drowsier, threatening to succumb to winter’s siren tendrils of sleep.

The Ionians had told me the Garuda had properties of the phoenix, I hardly believed them then; but even now, I wonder. I wonder because sometimes, when I hunt in Ionia, the cold Northern wind will sometimes carry a familiar, hearty laugh.
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