See also: Griffon

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I remember the second-last one. I wouldn't get closer than sixty feet, double the wingspan. That left you time to move. The beast was too weak to do much. Still, seemed respectful to keep the distance and leave its end to animal and trainer. She starved out. Not the way they should go, and not the way I was used to seeing them.

Oh, they were majestic bastards, and they knew it. Ask any Warden dumped arse over ears for not picking nits. See, trainer and beast had a kinship, and both knew what they wanted. For griffon, that bond meant grooming. Couldn't fault them. They needed what they needed. I mean, what's fair trade for saddling a Warden-Commander, full plate, lightning storm, sheer dive straight through an Archdemon's wing! Legendary, you can't argue! But back on the ground they knew they were owed. And you couldn't shortcut and douse them—they had all the majesty of a paddling rat if you waterlogged the feathers. No, it was a grueling task of preening thirty bloody feet of wing. And you'd better remember, or maybe the thing got pissy next flight and cut an oak too close, give you a love tap so hard your next helm dented. Still, everything in balance, every talon tipped, there was nothing that compared. You could reach down from the sky and cradle Thedas in your hand.

Anyway, yes, I remember the second-last one. After she dropped, the robes took some crosscuts, because they do things like that. And then we burned it. And then I got drunk.

I do not remember the very last. And you can't make me.

—Comments of an unnamed Grey Warden, excerpted from Weisshaupt records on the extinction of treasured species, liberated for public consideration by Philliam, a Bard!

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