Dagger-like claws sliced through the morning air without a sound, tearing through the stillness and only whispering proof of their presence when they sank into the scarred side of a log.

Defeat was a bitter taste in the gryphon's mouth made only worse by how it didn't seem to be dissipating, it lingered on his tongue and drew his brows down to knit in a disgusted expression of self reflection. Cantrip was no longer a freshly hatched chick under his mother's wing, losses were expected and would happen, so why did it haunt him so?

Pathetic.

Another rake of his talons and the log sprayed bark shrapnel like so much dried blood, the gritty little pieces flecking the white snow around him.

The sun had only just risen not more than an hour ago, streaking the mountainside in spills of gold, pink and red that made the freshly fallen snow seem as if it were alight in flame. Being half the color of the snow himself, Cantrip's paler feathers took on similar hues with the ever shifting metallic lining warming to a coppery shine where the sun hit it. In his mindless thrashing of an inanimate object he was already covered in the gore of a new day.

Pausing, he set his foreclaws down and studied the ragged exterior of the log he had been tearing to bits. The dark pine bark was shorn through to reveal paler innards in messy lines and grooves, an artless assault that felt like a wasted opportunity to study the angle of his slashes. Instead all he had was this mangle of a dead giant. 

Although…there was more blank canvas to work his claws through, if he turned the log over to its unmarked side then proper study could be put into his strikes. Now that was a plan.

Cantrip hooked both sets of front talons into the side of the log, adjusting his weight on his hinds before taking measured steps back to roll the large object over. Moving it in its entirety was different from simply clawing at it, but once one of the branches that wedged itself into the dirt on the first rolling attempt snapped it was clear sailing from there. He have just stripped the accursed thing of its limbs before trying to turn it over but the job was done now at least.

Or was it.

A new idea, time consuming and unnecessarily complex began to sprout in the gryphon's newly focused mind. If he could just get It upright and keep it that way—

“Myeeew~”

A fuzzy, gradiented body hopped up onto the log and landed right next to where his talons still rested, arching its back in a stretch.

“Philter, I was wondering where your sorry hide had gone off to,” Cantrip remarked dryly, lifting a claw to gently run it along the starry feline’s back while she puffed proudly. His fuzzy little companion came and went as she pleased, always seeming to find him again no matter where he went as if bound by some sort of magical thread of fate. So long as she behaved herself he didn't mind the company, though right now she seemed to have mischief on her mind.

Philter enjoyed her free scratch with a purr and as a thank you to her dear friend quickly began to knead her own claws through the freshly revealed and unmarred bark, face curved in an almost knowing feline smile.

“Away with you, blasted thing!” Cantrip cawed, scruffing the smug little beast between two claws and flicking her off to the side. She of course landed on her feet, no worse for wear as she strutted off a small distinct to one of the still living pines to climb and watch over her semi-avian friend's project. Her claws were hardly big enough to ruin the bark like his had, but really it felt like being the first to stop through a patch of newly fallen snow. It was about the principle of the thing.

Sighing, the gryphon got to work.

A bit of time, some rope he'd had to go back for and some elbow grease later, he had something that vaguely resembled the idea in his head. It took longer than he'd thought it would and early morning had already given way to midafternoon by the time the log dangled from the sturdiest branch of a much larger tree, but his makeshift swinging scratch pad was showing no signs of immediately falling apart. He might even say he was proud of himself for thinking of and executing such an idea in a day alone!

But now was the moment of truth.

Stepping forward, Cantrip tensed before swiping forward with his claws. Not in a mindless frenzy as he had earlier, but in a single, sweeping stroke whose path he watched slice into the wood.

Keep the wrist steadier than that, curving the strike was fine and all but getting your claws too deep in without having the power braced behind it was a recipe for a wrenched wrist should they stick because you didn't put enough power behind to keep tearing through.

Again.

As many times as he needed to to feel like he was making progress, Cantrip would study the path his strikes tore. Plus, there was the bonus in how the log began to sway with each consecutive hit it took, giving the impression of a weaving target.

This would do just fine for a bit of practice.