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In a small circle of scrub brush, a single dead tree marking its center, there was the overwhelming stench of blood. But it wasn't the sort that brought to mind a fight or a murder, but the succulent scent of prey.

The tree in the middle dangled rope on every branch, like a macabre decoration. Each rope ended in a fierce looking metal hook and a deep trench had been dug all around it, so that whatever dripped was sucked into the ground. No wonder the tree was dead. From some of the hooks, shanks of meat hung, easily the length of a grown female griffin. Others hung dead birds, plucked of every feather and beheaded. The smaller hooks featured little game, like bunnies.

A table sat nearby. A sack, open and full of what looked like pelts, hung from a hook on its side. From one of the bushes hung many tools- some of wood and stone and others made of weathered steel, catching the light at times.

The edges of the clearing were marked by the welcoming displays of bones; not the delicious bones that could be used for soups or gnawing, but the useless bones like hips, spines and skulls. They sprinkled the ground in piles, making a modest but ineffective fence.

At the only opening in the fence was a sign, staked into the ground and painted by one who didn't have an entire grasp on the written word.

"Butcher." An attempt to write prices had been scratched out a few times beneath and "Talk to me." had been written beneath.

The 'me' in question was a grey and white griffin, upright on his back legs, clearing off the table with a rag and muttering to himself. His eyes were sharp and focused but he had a grizzled appearance. He had pinfeathers on his head and his wings appeared oily and dragged along the ground, catching dirt. Blood stained around his paws and bits of black held fast under his talons.

Marrow wasn't the biggest griffin; even for a male he was small. But it was that size that allowed him to be keen and precise with his work. Griffins could be brutes in their dining- ripping things apart and being wasteful, or they could take it to him; let his craft and strange knowledge of anatomy make the most for the flock. His price was fair; 10% of the meat.

"Alright..." he uttered as he approached the deer. It lay dead, throat slashed and eyes no longer reflecting the light. A delivery from one of the hunting parties. It dwarfed him and he pawed it meticulously, grabbing an antler in his beak and tugging. It didn't budge.

At the trill, he shambled back and looked to the sky. Those deep blue orbs honed in on her as his beak remained where it was, wrapped about the antler. He returned her greeting with a quork that rumbled out of his throat and a flutter of his wing.

He was as proud of his sister as she was of him. Her prowess at singing had always helped him sleep as a chick and now her mastery of the lute was the only thing to get him out of his workshop. He'd yet to miss a public performance. It was her humbleness that he admired; she seemed let the music speak for itself instead of trying to show off with flashy pigment.

"He'o fifer." He said through his mouthful and pulled back with all his might, flapping his wings. The deer slid a few inches. "F'orry. Can' ta'k 'oolong. Agga 'it ist 'un 'ut ai niffall." He tugged again and again it shifted.

Glaring at it, he nosed under the thing and pushed with his shoulder, trying to squeeze under it. "Business has been the usual. Looking to hire a delivery boy soon to bring my cuts out to the guardians and scouts." He managed to get his head under, glaring and heaving, slipping as he got the neck onto his back, using a wing to push and bully the carcass.

"What brings you here?" He asked without looking at her. It was about the friendliest the grouchy butcher could manage for his sister.

He seemed to appreciate the distance she gave him. His work was his own and this wasn't the first deer he'd butchered. Getting it on the table was a chore, but he was too proud to even ask his family for help. He'd left the nest at a young age- just after fledging- on that insistence. He didn't want help. The way their parents doted on him made him feel crowded. It was a craving for independence that he now lived out here alone.

"Your only brother is doing-" He heaved and finally got most of it onto his back. Taking slow, calculated steps, he stalked towards the table, beads of sweat on his beak and haunches. "-just fine. Quiet. No meddling busy bodies." He gave her a look out the corner of his eye and bucked, tossing the carcass with a heavy slam halfway onto the table and using his wing to press the rest over the side.

"Phew." He chuttered, clacking his beak. Wasting no time, he grabbed a large bone cleaver and set about removing the head, the hooves and tail. Chopping off the antler on the head, he threw it to her.

"Here. on the house." He set about, peeling the skin. "Yeah, one of them might be good. Send 'em over if you happen to see one that don't look too bubbly." His face fell at the mention of a chick. "Maybe not somethin' that little, though. Doubt it'd be strong enough to carry something that far; by cart or by air. He caught her tone, regardless of restraint.

"A shame you're mated to your craft, Hemmy. You'd be a good broody." He slammed the bone cleaver into the table so hard a distant raven took to the sky. "Ugh. This bugger's fresh."

"You're free to the other antler if you want it. They make good beak picks." He gruffed. He paused in his speech as he scrutinized the meat beneath the skin and set about to slice it in two and dispose of the organs- save for the liver which was his 10%. He ate it right then and there, swallowing it whole down his gullet and giving a small burp of satisfaction.

Taking the meat in his beak and backing off the table, he hoisted it onto his back once more. Still big, but not nearly as heavy, he went to the hooks and skewered it, then repeated the process with the other half. He began to buff the table again.

"I don't think you need more practice with the lute though. It's in your blood at this point and I've never heard a sour note...well, not since we were fresh out of the nest anyway."

He placed the cloth down and went back to the hooks, grabbing a big side that looked like it'd been hanging a while already. He pulled it until it came free of the chain, putting it on the table. Silence fell as he eyed it, getting a serrated knife and begging to butcher the different cuts. The neck and shoulder, into little cubes for stew. The foreleg, the loin, tenderloin, flank, rump, the round. The trim he ate again himself. The cutting was a long ten minutes of total silence as he focused.

When he began to wrap the meat in brown paper and strings, he spoke again. "I'm sure you'd find a good nursemate if you wanted to. There's a bard I know, comes by to just stare at the skulls sometimes. Bit of an odd duck. Wassis name...some kind of songbird." He snapped his claws. "Warbler or something. Always talking silly. Maybe him?"

He chuckled. "I'll keep an eye too. My sister only deserves the best after all."
He tried to fold his wings as he set about to stack and wrap all the packages into one big bundle, which he then loaded onto a wagon cart hidden in the bushes beside the table. It was so rustic it almost blended in with the trees.

He never seemed to enjoy the delivery part of his trip. Many customers were met with a scowl or a snort and he didn't strum up conversation. He'd yell at grifflets that wanted to ride in the back and never answered why he hauled the rough looking wagon when it'd be much easier to fly.

When the meat was loaded in, he hopped onto his hind legs to give her a hug around the neck. His feathers smelled like blood, oil and metal, with a twinge of dirt mixed in, as his wing slid open again and dragged behind him like a banner.

"You could never be an embarrassment." He whispered into her ear. "You're too talented for that trite." He let go of her and set about with the next shank. "How did your last performance go? And when's the next one?"

He pauses for a moment to breathe in the nice scents on her fur. Even though the codger didn't care for flashy garbs and feather paints- to the point he found them tacky and rolled his eyes when dazzling griffins were about- he loved the smells. He closed his eyes, sniffing gently. They broke through the usual grime of his own feathers and he sighed softly. Relaxing, in their way.

He listened as he cut the second half of meat into the appropriate cuts, tail swishing behind him. He had an apron a long time ago, but it was very ratty and now he used the scraps of fabric to buff and wipe his work table.

"Yes, I was wondering who that was. She was a bit on the stuffy side, if you ask me, but she sang well enough. She'd probably be good with ya...long as she keeps herself in check. I like that she didn't try to upstage or sing over ya. I'd have thrown a knife at her had she tried." He gave a playful wink and began to wrap the second cuts of meat

"Better than that one a few moons back. What was her name? Starfeather or something daft like it. I did not care for her. Always drownin' you out."