Whatever that purple liquid was really nailed what it was alchemised for.
To an alarming tee.
I was served an utter knock out, with a complementary side dish of cold. Saying it was effective isn't giving it enough credit. It was heavy. I should tip the waiter for his excellent and astonishing services.
*Tip*
Sweet.
I open my eyes to access my precarious predicament.
The first thing I am greeted to is olive-coloured crotchets. Okay. That was fine.
Was.
Why the past tense? Well, the thing is...
I start with the crotchets, right? Comprehensible. Then, when I angle my head slightly to the left, the pattern of crotchets continues.
Okay, that's weird, but not weird enough to invoke anybody to raise any alarm bells just yet.
I look to the left.
Ooh, more! Joy.
I angle supplementarily.
The repetitious, vicious cycle of crotchets continue. Does this pain ever end?
I open my eyes further. My senses start to slowly get themselves together, one at the time.
First, touch.
I feel... my skin... scales, whatever.
Touching some sort of leathery substance. An odd cross between a rope and a piece of fur armour. How odd. The sensation brings forth waves of the leathery substance around my scales. It is as if the waves are shaped to be sorts of even-measured squares, with spaces of no sensation at all, in between.
It seems I have won me some new fans. In the form of crotchets. And they are all hugging me. Rather forcibly and roughly, I might add.
Talk about clinginess.
My mind clears a bit. And, more and more, the situation makes itself clearer as I think.
Then.
A single, simple train of thought surfaces on my mind soon after.
Oh. Oh, gods.
It was not even a second later that, in stupendous, dumbfounded realisation, I realise what the current situation entails for me. How idiotic can one get? I think I have set the bar to a record high.
I have been tied up.
In a rather well-fortified net. Only can a certain Hiccup be this imprudent in his entire lifetime. I am giving all the Hiccups that had come before me a bad name!
And, given my idiocy...
I don't think I will be escaping from this one anytime soon.
I try to stretch out my limbs, and, hopefully my wings.
I struggle more, only to process out a disappointing sigh after.
My efforts appear to be fruitless endeavours.
No matter how gods-damned hard I try, the ropes just won't budge. Too stubborn to do so.
Ugh. I give up.
So I, in a somewhat overly dramatic fashion, fall flat on the ground. It reminds me like how a toddler would do it. They would fall over, flail their arms & legs around, then procedurally complain that they hadn't gotten what they want. I speak from experience.
-A rather blunt hint:
Me-
Except.
I don't follow with any complaining. Of the sort.
I only keep the face.
And I can bet you all of my books and lucky stars that I look absolutely pitiable.
Man.
Always look where you are going. I don't mean to lead by example.
After a concerningly long period of time of lamenting hopelessly to myself, I finally take in my surroundings.
Wood.
The first thing I see, aside from the net that is restricting me from anything.
Second, a lit candle – hidden behind the transparency of glass. It stands erect in the middle of what looks to be a dining table, a rather worn out one at that. If somebody were to say to someone that this was a piece of salvaged furniture, they would be none the wiser.
I think I have seen this kind of candle handle illustrated in Roman-inherited books before.
They were designed to circumvent any potential fire-starting to occur in wooden houses, as well as being an easy-to-handle candle holder in the process. Vikings would never use what they call 'lamps'. They think it is a sign of weakness. It is not like they are wrong – in a way, it is.
But, when their houses get set alight, they shouldn't come running and crying to me.
Pyromaniacs.
Whatever this place is, it has to be either close to, or in Rome right now. Though, if it was Rome, it would be weird. I don't recall them stating that they used wood to build their houses instead of stone. Some select houses do, then? All I can do in my current situation is to just speculate.
I hate speculation.
Angling a little to the right from the dining table, a crudely shaped window appears before my tangled form. Its frame looks to be done by an amateur. It looks to be sunrise outside. Satisfied with what I have seen, I look further to the left of the table. A simple, modest wooden door. It doesn't do much for its looks, but it takes solace in the fact it does its job. Relatively well.
I stay like that for a while.
Until...
I hear them.
Squeaks. Of the hollow, wooden boards. Coming behind the door.
Somebody is coming.
Oh, gods.
They get louder, much to my dismay. My heart races faster.
I hear a hand coming into contact with the door handle. To think: a simple touch can send my heart running a marathon. It is almost comical, but all-roundly execrable. Especially for a creature of such whopping size and height.
I wonder what the hunter would think of me. I bet with malevolence and stagger.
I seal my eyes with an adhesive made of raw shame.
Within a moment's notice, I hear the door open.
I am in for a debauching time.
An olive-skinned man stands in the doorway. A reasonably tall one at that. He just reaches Dad's shoulder. The rest, though...
He would be like what us Vikings call a 'runt', like me. The runts are the frail and weak. Supposed to be those who have no hint of a reasonable body mass. And yet. Somehow, some way. He manages to be frailer than Fishlegs, of all people. He looks like a gods-damn twig.
His face droops, almost to the point where it is about to become actual slime. His eyes are hung wide, as if he had seen a draugr. His eyebags look like a dam about to burst.
They are haunting.
Gods.
Everything else about him, though.
Just... he is so stereotypical when it comes to Southerners.
Weirdly placed nose.
Non-crooked teeth.
An underdeveloped beard.
All of those things. He even dons a leather-skin jacket.
Yeah, yeah. I know.
That is pretty rich coming from a guy... dragon like me.
Moving on.
He formulates a sentence. They were begging to escape his throat.
It is not just any sentence, though.
It's an English one.
"Oh! You are awake."
I must be a long way from Berk if English was spoken. Hel, quite a long way from Rome, then.
Needless to say, Romans speak Roman. An English-speaking Roman would be...
Shocking.
And, that means...
I wouldn't know where I am. That's a problem.
Luckily, I am not completely illiterate to what he is saying.
Learning languages come as second nature to me. English is one of the easier ones. I am sure it is not as impressive of a skill as I make it out to be, but I like to think for it to be a... reasonable skill to master.
I try to move.
He pulls out his blade in response. And, personally, I find it rather sharp and jagged.
I freeze.
You know, what he says next really surprises me, for a Southerner.
I thought he was going to say along the lines of:
-"At the slightest twitch, at the slightest provocation – I am going to bury this blade so far deep into your hide you would be begging for a swift death, I swear on me mum."-
Because. As we all know. Romans are never ever culturally and prejudicially biased when they right their books.
Luckily, he was having none of that.
Jokes aside. Genuinely, I thought to myself. He was going to threaten me with all sorts of coercions. Instead, what comes out of his mouth sounded more vulnerable than I think even he intended.
"Okay, please... uh..."
He stares at his knife for a bit, as if it had something interesting. He's struggling to find the words.
"I... I am not afraid to use this." He motions the blade at me as if I understand it all.
"So... oh, God. You probably don't even know what I am saying."
Well.
The thing is, pal.
I do.
Imagine.
How much would the situation turn on its head if he knew? He would have probably cut my throat there and then. I try my best to play the part and act otherwise.
"Just..." He maintains that exasperated and aching look on his face.
It looks tired.
I relate to the expression.
Then, something I didn't expect. Without uttering a word, he moves.
Motioning and stepping forward.
To me.
Oh, no.
What is he going to do to me?
He comes closer. Ever closer to me.
I tense. I shut my eyes as if the Sun itself had shone all of its collective brightness towards them. He is going to kill me, isn't he?
It all adds up.
Think for a second: you walk into your room, hands held high, happy that you finally have the equipment you need to properly cut through the prey's abnormally tough scales, only to have it wake up on you prematurely. Your prey wakes from their non-consensual slumber, and the only thing they might, no, are almost guaranteed to do? Employ acts of frenzy in their panicked states.
Tell me. Honestly.
What would you do?
Yes. That's right.
You'd kill it as fast as possible.
I think he will follow through with that train of thought.
Things are not looking good for this sorry sod.
Before I can even contemplate to further process my paranoia, I suddenly feel a bit of freedom on my right hindleg. As time passes, more and more is being freed, and the feeling of the air brushing against it grows. It isn't long before it entirely and effusively escapes the net's grasp. As if... as if the ropes are being...
Cut?
What?
That wouldn't make sense at all.
Cutting off game, especially of my physical stature... surely, he'd consider it time-wasting, and most importantly, suicidal.
Right?
He thinks otherwise. I feel my left hindleg come loose. It touches the ground limply.
I stare at my abductor with a questioning look. He maintains his unreadable stance. What is he trying here? Does he want the claws on my legs? It's probably the claws on my legs.
But.
Why couldn't he do it when I was knocked out? In fact, why couldn't he have done anything to me when I was knocked out? Why wait until now? Why wait until the morning?
Those are the questions that had come to surface.
And none of them will be answered.
With a rather impressive yank, my head is pulled forward. I try to recover from the sudden action by balancing my hindlegs, but it doesn't seem to work. I fall back down, still shocked from the ordeal. In a blur, I look up.
A collar. The man brandishes the tether of one.
Of course.
You got to keep all of your belongings close to you somehow. He takes that idea to a whole other level. What a creative use for a leash. I decide to hold off my admiration when he pulls for me to motion forward.
I comply.
He steps out of the room.
I do too. Albeit, quite awkwardly.
Why? I am still tied from the waist up.
My mouth is tied with an impromptu knot. Be it as rudimentary as it may, it does its job well regardless. I conclude that it'd be too much of an effort to get it off. It'd be impossible anyway. Hel, have you seen me try to lift just one log of firewood? I thought not. I can't even do that, much less use my mouth to break free from a rope. A rather tight one, at that!
We walk through a wooden hallway.
He must not be of an exactly fortunate bloodline. It accentuates and reeks Getting by With the Lower Class.
And I thought I was having it hard.
Fat chance, Hiccup.
The sunrays shimmer their spotlights on the dancing dust around the room. There's something about the chaos on the dancefloor that simply looks beautiful to me.
On top of me, what looks like rotting driftwood, but, notwithstanding, it still does its job.
To the far right, next to a more realised wooden door, there clumsily stands an assortment of tools in a reasonably sized leather pouch.
To the left, two less realised doors.
Only one lays open. It leads to some sort of living area. There is not much going on in there to shout about.
Two chairs. A fireplace. A stewing pot. The necessities.
Only one, solitary object stands out from the crowd. A dog. Well, not a living one. A wooden one. One that is quite small. A 'mini-figure', if you like.
It looks like it has seen its fair share of wear and tear.
A bit dirty. Some damage. Some weather impairment. It still retains its shape, though, and it looks admirable all the same. But... what would a hunter like the one in front of me want with a... toy like that. Maybe he has some sort of secret appreciation for sculpturing?
The second one is bordered off.
I wonder what lies in there?
Before my mind can wander further, he yanks me out into the open. The sun is blinding.
I yelp.
That came off more beastly that I initially intended. I have got to give credit where credit's due here. He handles it unusually well. I highly doubt that an Englishman has seen a dragon before, much less handle one. So, what's with his lukewarm attitude?
I take a quick glance on his face.
Gods.
Is there an adjective to describe anger, sadness and worry all at once? If not, there should be.
Here, I will start:
His expression is pulling.
Any suggestions welcome.
I gulp.
We continue our walk. For quite a bit.
We end up entering a forest-like area. I say like because of the contents. There's not much green in this place. What replaces it is a peculiar substitute.
Grey.
The sapling leaves have fallen, bits and pieces of them, stubbornly clinging on to some of the branches above.
Needless to say,
It is depressing.
We scale down a mini pseudo-hill.
Okay, things are not making sense.
Where is he taking me? Why not kill me?
Ailing questions, I know. And, conveniently for me, I get my answer sooner than I expect.
In the form of a sentence.
"You want to see it? Here. Happy? Satisfied?"
It sounds desperate as all Hel.
Then, my worst nightmare acts out in real life. Humans. They emerge from the trees.
One.
Two.
Three.
They all carry swords.
Oh, no.
No.
He is more sadistic than I assumed.
He brought some friends to finish me off.
Gods.
Things are not looking good.
