Were-Gryphon
Weregryphons or Gryphanthropes are the ancient werecreatures with the descendants of crossbred werespecies of mammals and avians at the shift of the full moon. When they entered the classroom that morning, the alpha were-gryphon had not yet arrived, and three or four were-chicks are waiting to their alpha raises the stakes and power dynamics. At Clawthorn Academy, where the wind howled through spires like the cry of ancient beasts, strength meant everything. Flight, claw, fury. These weregryphons have their marks of status among the other younglings.
The gryphanthrope is an only werebeast with the upper body of a weremammalian and the lower half of werebird and plus, the avians' wings on its back. A human who phase into a weregryphon at the full moon, the way to turn by being bitten by a gryphon.
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The Inkwell Incident of Clawthorn Academy[]
The morning air in Clawthorn Academy crackled with whispers as he stepped into the classroom. Professor Perbron had not yet arrived. A group of boys were huddled near the back, their wings tucked and talons gleaming faintly in the shadows. They were tormenting Crossy the youngest were-hatchling in our form, barely feathered and with a twisted left wing that never grew strong. They sneered at him, flaring their crest feathers and clicking their beaks mockingly. One jabbed at him with a sharpened quill. Another cawed insults, puffing out his chest with cruel pride. A third flicked bits of dried bark—like the molted shell of a prey animal—into his downy hair. Crossy whimpered, folding into himself, his golden eyes wide and tearful.
But the torment only grew worse. The taunts sharpened. Laughter rose, wings flared. Crossy trembled, cheeks flushed with helpless rage. Then, without warning, Talren stood. He was not like the others. His lineage was old—rumored to be cursed. A weregryphon. His feathers were darker than pitch, eyes glowing amber even in daylight. He rarely spoke of the most avoided him. Talren stepped away from his perch, slow and steady.
Weregryphon’s transformation… Damnit
The room fell quiet. His claws clicked against the stone floor, and then, he roared not with sound, but with action. He seized the ink-horn from his desk, a talon curling around the base. With a guttural growl, he hurled it. However, it struck one of the tormentors square in the chest—ink bursting like spilled blood across his uniform. The others jumped back, startled, wings half-spread in shock. Crossy looked up, stunned, tears still clinging to his feathers. Talren stood tall, his breath heavy, something ancient and wild glinting in his gaze.
Just then, Professor Perbron entered, he paused at the threshold, taking in the scent of spilled ink, the startled silence, the trembling students. His gaze swept the room like a hunting hawk’s “Who threw the inkwell?” he asked, voice low and edged with steel. No one answered, but Talren did not move and Crossy said nothing. Outside, the wind stirred the leaves with a whisper, like the rustle of great wings.
