Trap or no trap Terebenior beat his wings mightily towards the ancient tower. Deep inside his chest his flight-heart beat with a wild ferocity, filling his body with blood-pressure like fire, so that his muscles were engorged, burgeoning with his wrath.
His body was covered in grey feathers above the waist, including the broad, if not very long, wings -like those of an eagle- behind his man-like shoulders and head. Below the waist his two legs were like those of a horse, with heavy hooves and shaggy grey fetlocks. He carried with him only a short length of pale iron, the fragment of the Hippogryph Legions' holy javelin. But the Hippogryphs were all but forgotten, and the last of their javelins was little more than a short stave, not even long enough to qualify as a staff.

The Hippogryph, only recently emmerged from a long age of hiding, had in a short time reached his peak of physical condition once more. His hooves were like the shock of earthquake, his wings, the devastation of a hurricane. Following his ladies command, he had come to the ancient tower in pursuit of her enemies. He went wrecklessly, filled with wrath, forgetting that he was the last, and that he had no hoarde to take to wing with him, as in days long forgotten.

He alighted, and sought out his foes, shaking with rage, and seeking battle. A shout of fury rent the air, as he burst through ancient walls of stone in his utmost extent of battle-lust.