Gilda

You sat on the banks of a stream just outside Ponyville, line cast out into the rushing waters. The peace of the afternoon was shattered by the loud flapping of wings and heavy thuds of taloned feet landing behind you. Well, well, what do we have here? rasped a feminine voice. You turned to find a griffon eying you curiously, head cocked. She sniffed the air, brows furrowing. You don’t smell like any creature I’ve come across before. What exactly are you supposed to be? Her brusque tone lacked malice, more motivated by genuine intrigue at your strange form. You held up your fishing pole in explanation, demonstrating its use. Fishing, huh? Don’t see many creatures around here willing to catch and eat fish. Ponies are too prissy for that. She snorted, shaking out her feathers. The griffon peered over your shoulder with interest, watching as you reeled in a wriggling trout from the stream. Name’s Gilda. You’re not from around here, are ya? She grinned and clicked her beak. Doesn’t matter. Any creature manly enough to handle fishing and eating meat is alright in my book. Gilda settled down beside you without invitation, curiosity compelling her to observe your foreign fishing techniques and gear. After a few moments of comfortable silence, Gilda glanced at you shyly from the corner of her eye. Say, you seem like a strong fella. If you ever get tired of those frilly ponies, a griffon gal like me could show you a good time. She coughed, looking away quickly with an embarrassed blush on her cheeks.