(A/N: This chapter brought to you by Google Translate. Google Translate: "Accuracy? What is accuracy be? We is accuracy! Always.")

Pain. All I could feel was pain. Pain in my head, sharp, like a Pricker quill between my eyes. A dull ache in my chest indicated a few broken, or heavily bruised, ribs. The worst pain, however, came from the gashes in my hide and tail. Dirt and gravel had lodged itself in the cuts and was rubbing the tender flesh sharply. Every time I breathed in, the not-vines of the not-web tightened around my body, reminding me I was trapped here on Midgard.

Damn Skenndar! I growled in my head angrily, I swear by the Great Father's Bright Eye that I will cause whatever Skenndar shot me down, lots of pain. I promise this!

Its scent was all over the not-web; an oddly comforting combination of ash, Ringing Midgard, fire, and trees. Whatever Skenndar made this had to be legendary! No Skenndar had ever caught me before, so this one must be their Guard.

I had also noticed that the not-web that held me was different from the not-webs that the Skenndar usually use. Where the normal not-webs are made of vines and weighted tree-balls, this one was made of what smelled like Ringing Midgard and burned prong-beast. It was tougher than the vines and I was having trouble getting up with the Ringing Midgard weighting me down. Clever, clever Skenndar.

I lay there, kissing Midgard and eating harbinger. I am un-hittable, un-defeatable, invincible, invisible, the Legendary Shadow of the Great Father, and I am an idiot! What kind of cub just gloats in the midst of a battle, whether or not they had used the Tha'um to turn the tide?! A yolk-brain, that's who! Snorting angrily, I closed my eyes and allowed myself to drift off in the midst of pain. This wouldn't have been the first time I'd done this, nor would it be the last.

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Once upon a time, for that is how all stories begin, there was the creation of the Skenndar Great Ones.

The Universe was happy with the Draconis, they were not displeasing to It, but It longed for more. So, It created the three Skenndar Great Ones, brothers by the name Vili, Vé, and Odin. They too were displeased with being the only of their kind, so they sought the power to Create from the Universe and were granted such.

Choosing the Great Father's planet, the brothers looked for suitable objects to glean life from. Vili spotted the trees that spring from the places where Draconis have died and mentioned it to his brothers. They determined that the recycling of life would be an excellent source for their Skenndar.

Odin took up an ashbark that grew from an Attacker and made the first Skenndar sire. Vili filled it with the wisdom of strength and Vé blessed it with the limited sight and hearing of their kind. Then Odin took up a dapplebark tree grown from a Guard and gave it the form and life of an egg-bearing Skenndar. Vili filled it with the wisdom of an egg-bearer and Vé granted it Skenndar sight and hearing.

Satisfied with their work, the three brothers placed the Skenndar on Midgard and left them to do their own thing, going on to Asgard high above the Great Father.

They were a novelty at first, a pet to have in the home. The more Skenndar you had at your beck and call in your Home, the better off you were. The Draconis taught their Skenndar to speak Draco, about art, how to hunt, and how to love. They were educated and refined until they were like scaleless, two-legged Draconis. There was peace.

It did not last long, but that is a story for another time. There is truth in song.

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I woke to the wet smell of His Breath upon Midgard and the sound of tree-bits breaking. The forest around me had gone silent, not even the loud calls of feather-beasts could be heard. Something was wrong.

"Ohh, er goðin skulu hata mig. Sumir missa rýtingur þeirra eða uppáhalds mál þeirra, en ekki mig, nei! Ég stjórna að missa heilt DREKINN!" I froze—not that I could do much moving around regardless—and inhaled.

There. I could smell Skenndar. Another deep whiff and I almost cried out in anger; the Skenndar approaching me was the same one that shot me down.

The smell of ash, fire, Ringing Midgard, and trees permeated the very ground itself, invading my nostrils and tongue with its calm. No! No, no, no, no! No! It can't get any closer! I won't let it! Terror took over, clouding my vision in blankets of grey and I thrashed for a bit, drawing its attention to me.

"Hvað var þetta?! Er að Nótt Heift? Vá," the Skenndar barked in—what I assumed to be, since I could not read emotion in beasts—awe. "Líta á þess óreiðu! Kannski..." Hurried steps grew closer quickly and I stiffened in fear.

If you don't move, it can't tell if you're alive...if you stay perfectly still it'll think you're dead and leave you alone. Just. Stay. Still.

"Oh! É-Ég gerði það! Þetta er frábært; ég trúi ekki að skaut reyndar niður Nótt Heift! Ég felldi þessa voldugu dýrið!" The Skenndar came up behind me, clumsy and inept in its stealth—if it had even been trying to be stealthy in the first place, that is. Placing its hind paw on my flank, hard, it purred with pleasure.

Okay, no more mister dead Draconis, I huffed, shrugging it off and abandoning my façade of death, my eyes now open and observing everything. From what I could see, the Skenndar that shot me down was barely a yearling! Ohh, the humiliation! To be shot down by a mere cub! So falls the last Shadow of the Great Father!

"Vá, það hefur augu eins og minn...," the cub churred, head cocked to the side. A mop of red hair framed its head like a halo of flame, bringing out its bright green eyes.

He has eyes like mine, I mused, what cruel trick is this by the Great Father? Am I being punished? Is this my comeuppance for hubris?

The cub reached inside the fold of his—for it smelled heavily of a Skenndar sire, therefore must be a 'he'—fur and pulled out a not-fang made of Ringing Miðgard. He held it above his head and growled pathetically, "Ég mun drepa þig, Nótt Heift. Ég mun skera út hjarta þínu og koma með það til föður míns..." He tensed and pulled the not-fang higher, readying himself for the killing blow. My eyes met his again and he bared his nubby Skenndar fangs, "Ég er víkingur." He was hesitant, terrified even. "Ég er víkingur," he roared, "Ég er...ég mun...

I stared at him a little while longer, willing his death to be as painful as my own, and then closed my eyes in acceptance. If you're going to kill me, do it honourably. I will ascend to the Great Father in the form of a mighty tree, and you will tremble in my shade as I cast you into Hel.

"...Ég gerði þetta..."

No blow came; no final breath was ended and no blood spilled. Instead, I heard a soft noise and felt the pressure across my breast lessen.

whirr, whirr, whirr—SNAP!

Once again, the tension of the not-vines wrapping me up was lessening. What is the Skenndar doing?!

But he continued to chew the not-vines with his not-fang until I could move again. I leapt up in one fluid motion—ignoring the massive amount of pain I was in from simply getting up—and pinned him to a piece of Midgard. "Skenndar," I growled at him, ready to exact my revenge. Then a wave of pain hit me and I knew that I had to get away, and if I took the time to kill the Skenndar cub, I wouldn't have the energy to escape. So instead—"schlæphan!" The Skenndar's head-fur blew back by the force of my Tha'um and he stiffened, but did not fall unconscious.

Damn. Looks like...I didn't have enough energy behind that...one... I was very dizzy and very nauseous. Using a Tha'um—and an alteration one at that—while already injured was not a good idea. Nope, not a good idea at all.

Simultaneously satisfied and disgusted by the smell of piddle emanating from the Skenndar, I gave a satisfactory huff and attempted to fly off as if nothing was wrong with me at all. Note: I said attempt.

I listed to the right constantly, and couldn't hold a power glide for more than a few breaths. Stumbling and crashing my way through the damned forest, I finally managed to catch air and maintain it for more than before. Unfortunately, the air I was catching was right above a large drop-off, and I wasn't flying so much as falling to my demise.

I never realised how bad the wool-beasts we take during our Raids must feel, to be hoisted in the air and then dropped into Her waiting maw, until now. The wind whipped my ear-flaps, tore at my partially furled wings, stung at my various wounds. The whole ordeal must've lasted only a few breaths—though it felt like an eternity—but I managed to unfurl my wings and use them to create enough drag so that I wouldn't go SPLAT against Midgard. Again.

If I hadn't previously broken something by falling from His Underbelly to Midgard the first time, I certainly did this time. The pain was absolutely unbearable, excruciating. I could barely breathe because the pain across my chest was so great. Through a great feat of strength, I finally managed to drag myself—bit by bit—towards the lake that lay in front of me. I dipped into it and winced as the water hit my lacerations and abrasions.

"Dammit!" I roared in pain, "Stupid damn Skenndar! I hope you rot on Midgard as a draugr for all of eternity!" Cursing the scaleless from here to Hel, I finished my wound-cleaning bath and crawled out to rest.

Sleep...sleep will heal my wounds. I created a bed of embers and wearily snuggled into their warmth. As I drifted off I wondered, why didn't he kill me?

Skenndar always go for the kill.

Always.