“Oh. True.” Astrid hadn’t even considered that: there’s presumably no one alive right now who’s an expert in griffon care and who Siegfried could consult. Unless…

Her gaze slides over to the mountain range behind them, the hulking shape of the Hunterhorns rising over the Blasted Hills. Weisshaupt’s north of them, from what she’s gathered from squinting at the various maps of the area, trying to get her bearings around a foreign mountain.

“Been hearing there’s a band of Wardens around here. Not the shitty ones, like, good ones. D’you think they might know anything about griffons still?”