Chapter Twelve

Gore warning for this chapter, read at your own risk.

The flight towards the nest was sombre. What had been cycles of anticipation all coming together in one night's flight was surely more excitement than Small-Claw had ever felt; his life-fire roaring in his chest as he beat his wings and then glided on air currents. They'd left the two-leg nest and were now soaring directly towards the Queen. It was an odd pulling sensation, as if he were being tugged along by some invisible force, and he knew it to be Her. Drawing him in like this was most definitely how she'd amassed so many other scale-wings to her nest.

Small-Claw hadn't seen a single sign of other kin on their way towards the nest, and they had been flying for what felt like a full cycle - he was expecting the sun to rise any moment - but there was simply nothing. Blue as far as he could see, with no land to break up the tone of murky aqua; he could not even see the sea-scale-kin in the depths beneath him, or hear their calls.

Wherever they were headed, it was not a place the living wanted to be.

It did not take much longer for Small-Claw to sight their destination. An enormous rolling wall of fog that seemed to get taller and wider the closer they got until it was all he could see either side of him. The mist behaved like nothing he'd ever seen; never straying or moving far from the rocky pillars he made out through the dense grey.

They pulled up a little and Cloud-leaper went into a hover, and Small-Claw followed suit with Toothless, who was looking deeply focused.

"Tooth-less, you know way through?" The four-wing barked, and the Night-One nodded his head, slowly. Small-Claw deeply wanted to comfort his friend, but this was not the time. He only listened intently.

Which brought him to realise the omnipresent buzzing noise that he could make out from the fog; he knew somehow that it emanated from a scale-wing, but he knew not how many, or where they were from. But it was as if it was from everywhere, tilting his head did nothing, and moving closer to the fog only made it louder. Small-Claw frowned, and blinked - hearing something else, but discerning it from the thrumming from the wall of mist was impossible now he was so close to it. He hadn't noticed how close he'd gotten until he realised his kin were not with him, and he shook his head quickly, turning his neck around to find Cloud-leaper poised, about to crash into him and grab him with his claws.

Small-Claw squawked and dropped a little to avoid him, the four-flyer rising and looping back around to bark at him.

"You not ready! Fool hatchling!" The ruddy kin growled at him, eyes wide with worry and the night-one beside him mirrored his expression.

"That her? That what she do? The noise!" He crowed, having not even realised what was happening to him until it was almost too late, a little shaken now.

The other two scale-wings nodded, the two-leg on Cloud-leaper simply tilting her head and looking past at the fog wall. He wondered what she made of it; it was taller than the massive ice nest they resided in.

Small-Claw paused, flapping to keep in the air with them before looking back at the fog and steeling himself what little he could.

"Not matter. We have do this." He said, determinedly. He pulled himself up, and pushed between the four-flyer and his best friend. Small-Claw his eyes on the fog bank while they started moving towards it, righting their bodies and starting to glide in to the massive, ethereal wall. The buzzing continued, and fighting it was like battling the desire to fall asleep; constant, shaking of his head and bleary eyes to ground himself. He couldn't tell if the others were fighting the same fight, but he saw the two-leg woman occasionally, between wafts of mist and wing beats from Cloud-leaper. Her head was tilting to and fro, and she was looking side to side in the mist, staff at her side, poised as if to strike.

Small-Claw had to keep himself centered, wrapping his mind around his life-fire as he felt that tug. The incessant, aching tug at the core of his existence that was trying to pull him from his flock, from Toothless. He kept himself focused on the warmth that thought brought to him, and he thought of his memories with him as they flew through the fog bank and the sea-stacks as the buzzing told him where to head.

The Night-One thought of their winter together and how they had become so close in such a brief span of time - regaled himself on the terrifying leap of faith he'd taken as Toothless rescued him from the human-nest. He clutched these memories into his life-fire and flew harder, working his wings into hard downbeats, and they sped through the endless maze. Small-Claw constantly chirped and barked us us we flight! as their path got harder to navigate; allowing the pull to direct him but nothing more. They wound through and around arches of stone and rock, underneath floating-wood-two-leg things, scorched and split into halves. Even flying as fast as they were it was too long before they found open air again, a shore of small stones.

The mountain they flew towards through the fog was larger than the mountain on his two-leg nest, he could tell from their low position. It had thick trails of lava oozing from it, and the air itself felt hot, as if a scale-wing was breathing upon him. He could see no kin, but he could somehow feel their presence around him. There must have been more than at the King's nest.

Toothless seamlessly took the lead from him and he fell behind, watching as he was led to a ledge, much too high on the shore for anything without wings to reach, and folded his wings. Small-Claw quickly followed suit, and Cloud-leaper contorted his body so that his larger size could fit through the gap at the back of the ledge - a tunnel.

The tunnel led into more intense heat, and the buzzing was cacophonous. It was everything around him, it was the walls and the air he breathed as it writhed against his mind and life-fire as some awful force. His eyes squinted, as if fighting wind that slammed and buffeted his body, to see straight. The passage opened at its end into the enormous core of the mountain, pillars of stone with ledges fashioned on them with more scale-wing-kin than he'd ever seen before in his life, and they were all cowering. The air was rank with the dizzying stink of fear terror horror from the inhabitants of the nest; but Small-Claw could see none of them fighting or fleeing at their arrival as every eye fixed on them.

Toothless led them to a small cavern high up, empty, and alighted them to it. Their small flock landed, and still no scale-wings rose up to stop their advance. Small-Claw felt fear and huddled closer to his friend, the Four-flyer at their back as they peered at the nest.

"Where is the Queen?" Small-Claw whined, not liking that, from all of their talks, he'd never actually envisaged what a monster such as her could look like.

His answer came in the loudest sound he ever heard; a thunderous roar that shook stones free of the mountain and they rained down over the nest, lava of scale melting temperatures burbling up from the pool beneath them and smattering on rock again. Something was under that pool of lava, and it was surging upwards, and soon enough, Small-Claw had his answer.

There was an enormous, monstrously sized beast dwelling under this mountain, and while it may be a Queen, it was definitely no scale-wing. It's scales were a mottled, dark green hue that ran red closer to the tail that curled around the rim of the lava pool, an enormous spiked ball that could level a village in one devastating blow. Its wings were tiny in comparison to its body, folded up tightly. It's body was fat, a sign of it's glutton - thousands of scale-wings serving to feed it and it alone, and it had almost stumpy, thick legs as thick as a dozen of the biggest trees Small-Claw had ever seen.

It was truly worthy of the moniker of monster. Some spawn from another world, come to end everything in its path and force subservience upon every scale-wing.

Small-Claw was rooted in place by terror as the roar ended. Whatever this thing was there was no killing it, there was surely, no harming it. But he could not move and he could not think, and then that awful thrumming was upon him again, and this time he was not fast enough to repel it.

His vision blurred and narrowed, as his head was forced upwards, staring at the Queen in front of him. His gaze was locked and he saw her eyes for the first time; three on each side of her head. She stared at him and he felt her take the very measure of his life-fire, peering across his entire existence. It ached and made him want to cry out in pain, like she was ripping it from him, as if she was making it her own and adding it to her vile, gluttonous, scaled mass. The Night-One wanted to cry, shaking from snout to tail tip. Was this death? Was he being killed by just her mere presence? It certainly felt like it. This was so much worse than he could even fathom, and he wanted it to end, for anything to stop this.

It left him, suddenly, all at once. A deep rush of air pulling into his lungs as she released him, and that roar sounded - able to hear again and Small-Claw whimpered, curling in on himself. He couldn't hear his friends over the din, ringing in his ears and through his mind. He wrapped himself around his life-fire and cried out for them in terror.

The entire nest swirled with life suddenly, a violent scream of attack screeched by the enormous head of the monster Queen. Colours and shapes blurred as the most primal part of Small-Claw forced him to move, and he obeyed quickly.

The Night-One no longer thought of his friends, or the Queen. He just had to get out, anyway possible, out out out. Off the ledge, down, take the burning hot updraft, up up up; avoid the others, avoid the monster. Two-heads, fire-wings, spine-tails, rock-eaters, avoid, dodge, turn. Out out! There were too many scale-wings in the way. Gas filtered into his mouth, and he fired, blasting a dozen out of the way, enough to force a hole which he shot through with a flap of his wings, up and out. We see the sky, take to it. Ignore the pain, ignore the fear, go. Survive, fly! Out of the mountain, down the slope, out to water. Through the stacks, through the mist, get away!

Voices called to him and reached, crying his name out, but he kept flying, far out past the nest's borders and the buzzing sound the Queen was making. Small-Claw flew, he knew not the heading but he just needed to get away. His mind felt empty and he felt cold, as if his life-fire was far from his reach and he was submerged in ice. But that didn't matter, so long as he got further away.

The weather had taken a turn, and it was raining now. Small-Claw sped on, a dot in the downpour with his eyes and head swiveling, searching for somewhere to land, somewhere to hide. He couldn't be in the open, she could send any one of her thralls out for him. The ocean was large before him, but he knew, vaguely, that if he followed the course he was on there would be a small island he could land upon. The sea was treacherous as always, and he would most likely just make the journey at this pace.

Small-Claw could feel aches and pains all over his body now, as he started to gain back his consciousness a little more from the instinctive terror that piloted him towards the island and out of the nest. Cuts and burns, scratches and gashes along his sides, wings, belly, neck, snout. He felt dizzy, and was exhausted deep in his bones, but he had to find somewhere to land. He stared ahead, squinting through the drops of rain on his snout and beating his wings harder. There was the tiniest sign of something ahead of him, and he focused on it, barely blinking.

He refused to think of anything else, not until he was able to see it better - it wasn't big, but it looked like it had a pasture and a water source of some kind. There was a slant and a tall hill on one side, that looked like it might have some form of sea-side cave. Small-Claw angled himself around the island and looked over it and relaxed himself a little, darting downwards. He'd been right, just above sea-level, there was a cavern that extended into the water, guarded from rain by an overhang and from sea by it's sheer face below.

He took a deep breath in, scenting what he could through the rain as he landed. There were signals of some form of aquatic life having been here a long time ago, but there were no remains or tell-tale signs of life. Small-Claw padded in on shaky legs, almost dragging himself on his exhausted body to the back of the cave, and he curled himself up tightly, shutting his eyes.

Small-Claw would worry about his small flock in the morning.

There was a dragon in the cave.

It woke up, stirring slowly and it rolled it's shoulders with a whine. It was wounded, and hungry. Food first. It left it's cave, gliding out from the ledge and banking to the shoreline to the left. The dragon scented the ground and discovered a weak trail from a fox. It would not be enough for long, but perhaps for now. The dragon moved.

The trail took it up the hill, which it climbed with a mixture of leaps and flaps of its wings, careful to make little sound in case the prey would hear the approach. Secured atop the crest of the hill, it took in its surroundings, belly low to the ground and wings tucked in. It sniffed the air again, and again followed it to a small hole beneath a tree in the forest that occupied most of this part of the island. It's den. The dragon was careful, observant, and quiet - while he was very large, he could be near silent when needed, capable of holding in his breath for minutes at a time. The onyx scaled creature waited, a single leap away from the fox hole.

However much time passed was irrelevant. The fox knew he was there, it had to - but that did not matter either. It had to leave, or be burned from it's home. The dragon had to wait, and he was rewarded quickly enough. A blur of orange shot from the base of the tree, baying and scampering out, away from the predator. But the dragon was faster - and in one leap, he had the entire thing in his jaws, crunching down on it and shaking until it stopped moving. Meal secured, the beast padded towards the small watering hole on the island; it's only source. It would last him long enough to heal and move on, and then some.

It lay down in the sun on the water's edge, and hurriedly devoured the meagre meal. More would be needed, but this would sort his gut for now, along with a good helping of water which was greedily drunk. Full, and comfortable, and safe for now, the dragon began tending to it's wounds. It's thick, wide tongue dragged over anything it could reach, or else it dabbed saliva to the base of a paw and reached a wound that way. This was a slightly exerting endeavour, and the sun was full in the sky when it was finished and happy with it's work. The saliva of this dragon had specific properties that helped close wounds and encourage healing; they did not know this, but it was simply an instinct.

The dragon went around the island, exploring the territory that was to be his home for now. It was circular, oblong, with a steep hill on one side and a sheer rocky face on the opposite, the ends rising and dipping to a peak and a drop, which created a slight basin in which the forest was. The dragon went to the highest point of the island, and looked around him. There were no other isles in sight, which could be good, or bad, but for now it was of no consequence. He could fish, later, and there was water. The dragon was safe here.

And so it was. For seven days and nights it rested and healed, eating its fill and did small patrols around its territory. It made sure to scent mark as much as it could, ensuring others would steer clear.

On the eighth day, the dragon spotted something on a flight around it's island, drifting in the water. It was a strange shape, and as it got closer, it saw humans - Vikings. They were on a ship, though it did not know of it's name; three longboats passing through his territory in the evening bearing strange symbols on the large sails. The dragon was wary and careful not to show itself, staying high up enough that they would mistake it for a bird or not see it at all in the waning light.

The dragon was wont to leave it's nest, but it decided this was necessary. If there were humans sailing by, there was a chance they lived near to him, and humans were dangerous - vikings especially. It did not know how it knew, but they were clever and cunning and evil. They were not prey to it, nor predators - simply a threat. Enemies.

Their boat drifted fast in the hard spring winds, eastbound, and the dragon followed. It saw an island ahead, after it had long gotten dark, and sped towards it. They were definitely too far away from it's nest to be a threat, yet something drew the dragon closer. The torches and life present in the human village pulled him in, something foreign and new. It was an enormous island, but there were very few human buildings. The dragon circled for a while, observing everything - if nothing else, it was good to know what he may be up against in the future.

It caught itself with a huff and a snort, and turned, leaving for its own island. Humans were dangerous, and staying was a risk he was not willing to take any longer, and he left the island, a ghost in the chilly night.

Another week rolled by, the dragon healed back to its former strength, and its wings no longer ached when it flew for too long. It both wanted to stay on its island, but something tugged it, calling. Like the human nest had, and it was curious - perhaps other of his kin were closeby? It had not seen any other dragons, only the prey of the island and the humans, and birds, and fish.

It was lonely.

It left the safety of it's island a day later, eating a full belly of fish and water before heading north under cover of a cloudless night. The moon and stars cast his shadow onto the sea as it flew towards the silent call of something familiar, far in the freezing north. It's journey was peaceful, spending a few days island hopping and hunting land prey instead of fish to vary his diet, or to keep itself entertained. Anytime it saw humans, it hid in the clouds or the forest. It ventured too close to a human village at one point, flying too low, and had suffered consequences - two arrows to the side, lucky shots - which turned the dragon away from daring to go near them. It had not even done anything to them, had not loosed its fire, had not taken food, or harmed one of their number, yet they attacked the moment he was seen.

It decided humans were danger, and to be avoided.

The dragon flew north, further still, taking it's time. It had found several islands on it's way, and had explored them all, searching for other dragons, and finding nothing but boars and deer and foxes. It did not go hungry, but it was still alone. It slept each night, alone, and sad. Nightmares assaulting it as it slumbered, curled up around a patch of warm stone, or tail wrapped on a branch, suspended from the ground. Nowhere was safe when he slept, dreams of an enormous creature, burning everything in its path, and humans attacking it and killing it, somehow in front of itself.

Six days after leaving his territory, the dragon was captured.

It had happened all too fast in the night; it had not cleared the large island it had chosen to sleep on - it was much too cold this far north for humans, it had reasoned, and had carelessly fallen asleep by a river that flowed from a mountain. The dragon had been caught in chains and in ropes in it's sleep, from which it had awakened, thrashing and screeching - tangled in ropes too thick to slash and chains to strong to burn.

The dragon had watched the Vikings as they surrounded him, daubed in furs and pointing weapons at the snarling creature on the ground, panting having exhausted itself fruitlessly battling it's chains. They had captured it, and now it was to be taken somewhere. The dragon had been loaded onto a wooden cart and hauled across the island to an encampment swarming with humans that had surely not been there when he had arrived.

They poked him with spears and tossed rocks, jeering and laughing. A celebration was had of some kind, the dragon the centre of it as the humans danced and sung and drank ale while it was bound in even thicker, heavier chains in the middle of them.

A human had approached, drunk, and teasingly offered the beast a hunk of meat.

It was very lucky to only have lost a hand.

A muzzle was attached to the dragon that night.

In the morning, the merriment ceases, and the dragon is taken, and loaded onto a boat. The vikings loaded him onto a ship, inside of a cage, still chained and roped, where finally he had found other dragons - while it was sad they shared a predicament, it was delighted to not be alone anymore - there were four others. A beautiful, proud green and blue dragon with a crown of spikes and a tail of them. Another, with three black horns and a beak like snout with contrasting white and orange scales. The third shifted colours frequently, from red to black and then to orange, it had a finned head and tail and two stubby small arms. The last was a snake like creature, sharp and spiky with a large, wide mouth and iris-less eyes. They did not speak to it, all muzzled as well, but they looked a little more at ease at the newcomers presence oddly.

The ship lurched forward some time later, and the dragon began to fight the bonds that held it again. It's wings ached from being clamped to its body, and it was glad it could sheathe its teeth so they did not press into each other with the muzzle on so tightly. It crashed and slammed and rolled in the cage to try and get the things off him, but it was answered by four vikings coming down and yelling at him, slamming the bars of the cage and jabbing spears and swords through the gaps.

The dragon snarled and growled at them, but relented. They could very easily kill it in the cage, tied like this. It would have to wait, and bide it's time.

The boat rocked and lurched, and through the gaps in the wood and the door to the room of cages it was stuck in, it could tell that two days had passed, before the wood lurched again and thudded against something solid. It was quickly taken out of the cage by a dozen armed vikings, and goaded onto the same cart as before. It felt ashamed to bend to the will of the humans like this - it should burn them and fight them, but without wings and fire, it wasn't enough to claw at a hand here and there.

The dragon was taken above deck again, and found itself at a village of vikings, on their docks. The cart clanked and shook as it was pushed along, gaps in the wood making for a very grating journey until they hit land, if short. There were even more vikings here, lining the path to wherever it was they were going. Children were hidden behind their mothers as the dragon made sure to give the loudest growl it could - they should be afraid of it. There were more warriors, as well, all clapping hands and cheering as if capturing the dragon was a high achievement - though it did not have a clue as to why.

It was taken along a dirt path, to a large stone building with metal gates, and it slumped against the cart as it saw they were taking it to another, if bigger, cage. There were no other dragons however, cages empty. It had walkways above the cages and buckets lining a wall, filled with water, and there was only one way in - a very long way from his own cage.

The dragon was deposited harshly into the cage once it was opened for it; the cart lifted up until he slid off it and thudded into the stone floor of the barred prison. The dozen vikings swarmed him, weapons digging into scales as the chains were suddenly removed from its sides, and it didn't move - if the price of this small freedom was temporary subjugation, it would allow it - its wings ached deeply.

Chains removed, the muzzle stayed on, and a new addition was given to the dragon - a clamp on his tail fins, tight. It tried not to show how terrified it became as the cold metal and leather wrapped it's most vulnerable appendage, growling at the swarm of stinking humans around it.
The dragon vaguely remembered another kin losing this limb and the awful feeling it brought him was enough to keep him down.

They left the cage hurriedly after that was added, and it stood up only as the last one was cleared, and the dragon charged at the doors with a snarl. A loud clang and a yell sounded as he made the viking trip on to his behind, and the beast snorted at the human with a scowl.

The cage was barely big enough for it to open its wings entirely, but it could open one at a time. It took that opportunity and shivered, ignoring the men outside of it's enclosure, flexing one wing and then the other. Satisfied there was no real damage, the dragon scoured the area. Three vikings stayed in the building other than the guards that were posted, and they sat outside of its cage, gesturing at it and talking to one another in raised voices. It couldn't understand what they said, so ignored them in turn, heading to the furthest edge of the cage and sitting down, wrapped up in wings and tail. The binding on its tail had spikes along the sides, to stop the dragon from chewing it off - but it knew immediately this was foolish of them - this would turn the whip like strike from bruising to deadly, but it would only get to do it once.

It looked at the men outside of its cage, and took them in. The tallest had a wiry beard, and a hook for a hand, with black hair and a large bear fur cape. He smelled of the sea and of metal. It seemed to be arguing with another, who was in turn arguing with the third. They kept looking and gesturing at the dragon, so it must have been about what to do with it.

Humans killed on sight, the beast knew, so they must have something cruel planned. It did not matter what it was, as the dragon would escape - vikings were cruel and cunning, but the dragon was smarter, and faster and stronger.

As it laid it's head to rest, it knew; this cage would not hold it for long.

Þórarinn Hugleikr had never been so insulted in his life.

A successful hunt had not only yielded four magnificent dragons that would keep their coffers full until the harvest, but a Night-Fury. The beasty had been asleep by a river they'd come to, to refill their waterskins for the camp, and had been practically handed to them by Óðinn!

So of course, they'd come back to celebration, but his chief had wanted to give the bloody creature away to another tribe!

The fact they even knew it to be a Night Fury upon finding it had been thanks to the village of Berk, a week sailing from the island of Stonebridge where he had lived his entire life - the Chief of Berk was said to be the best dragon slayer alive, able to rip a dragons wings out of the sockets with his bare hands. The people of Berk were renowned for being so utterly stubborn, living on the most raided island in the Archipelago and continuing to live there for hundreds of years, unlike his own people who had come to the colder climes for more lucrative dealings to do with the monsters.

Which brought him to his predicament; his chief, Bjarni the Wise, had demanded of him that the creature he'd captured be sold to Berk for barely the cost of a Gronkle. He had argued and yelled until he was blue in the face, but his chief was unfortunately set on it, gravely muttering something about an oath their Chief had sworn.

"That drag'n stirred things up in Berk a while ago. Turned up, wild and ferocious like, and ruined a score of warriors before disappearing in the night, the tale goes. The chief has issued a demand to all the other tribes that it be brought to him, alive. 'S not my want, but I've no desire for a blood feud between Berk and Stonebridge." He'd said, before leaving him in his stupor.

The Night Fury had fallen asleep a time ago during their argument, and he turned to his closest friend Hroarr who had been trying to change their Chief's mind with him, who seemed equally put out.

"I cannae believe he's jus' gonna give it to 'em. Gods know what that Night Fury must be worth to Berk." The smaller man sighed, scratching his blonde beard. Hroarr was Þórarinn's closest friend, a battle-brother who he trusted with his life. They'd been trapping and selling dragons since the day they'd been recognised as men, and the village owed them a great debt - but apparently even this was too far from their reach.

The warrior heaved just grunted at his companion and looked to the other dragons as they were put in the cages. It was a good haul, the best since the ice had gone, but the loss of the Night Fury was galling, and there it was; asleep in it's cage as if it knew that they were being cheated out of their rightful profits.

Þórarinn felt an idea come to his mind, and tilted his head, looking at Hroarr, who seemed to already have gauged the look on his face, frowning at him.

"I don' like that look, Þórarinn." Hroarr said, but grinned a little soon after.

The hunter grinned, matching his battle-brother and he looked around, whispering so the guards wouldn't hear them, of his plan - if they couldn't have the whole dragon, then just a part of the legendary offspring of Lightning and Death itself was enough for him.

Þórarinn was not a man for being cheated out of what was his, and this scaled monster would soon know it, too.

Night came, and so did a series of grunts and thuds. The dragon woke up, still in it's cage, and looked around.

The Vikings that had been patrolling the walkways of the buildings and guarding the door were all slumped over, knocked out, and two figures were coming towards his cage - cloaked and hidden from the flickering torchlight. He could make out their faces - the men from earlier.

The dragon growled at them, standing up and looking between the vikings as they stepped closer to his cage.

He sniffed the air, and frowned - these men were… jubilant. Happy. Proud? This was not normal, yet the dragon had nowhere to run, so just hissed as they came to his door. The taller of the two fiddled with the lock on his cage, and then looked to the other, nodding his head, and the dragon wanted to attack them, to trap them beneath his claws, or use his spiked tail trap on them, but then, a click came.

The door opened.

The dragon didn't think twice - if they were setting him free of this cage, and were harming allies to do so, then they could be spared. Just this once.

He slithered out past them, and as they nodded and pointed at the door, matching grins, the night-winged creature sprinted, dashing for the door. He bounded over bodies and buckets and stools, the other dragons squawking and growling and chirping as if to cheer him on to his freedom, butting heads on the cages.

The dragon did not see the metallic, teethed disc at the door as he ran out, bounding through them.

The bear trap snapped shut on his left hind leg, and he wanted to roar as the teeth dug in to him, his body falling to the ground in a cloud of dust.

He tried desperately to roar, to sound his pain, yet the muzzle barely gave a hint of a creak at his effort.

The pain was searing, the teeth of the trap had dug in deep past his hard scales and gotten to bone, and he collapsed, whimpering on the ground. The men were at his side, and one of them gave a kick at his weakened form - it had been three days since he ate last nearly, and the sheer agony of the metal in his leg stopped him from giving them awful recompense.

The dragon was held down by one as the other worked, grisly sounds coming as he sawed off his paw. These men had goaded him, teased him with freedom and then trapped him all the more; he lost a paw. He was very lucky that he had been bounding so high, or else it might have claimed more than just the paw, but that did not matter. The dragon whined and could only feel as he had the paw severed from him, and something soft applied around the stump.

The beast did not fight the other vikings as they charged the two at his side, who simply laughed, one gesturing to his sick trophy while the other pointed and shrugged down at the dragon on his belly. He meekly attempted to paw forwards, trying to drag his body out of the building, but he barely made it past the open door before he was tugged back - vikings appearing from nowhere apparently, and they all lugged him back into his cage, though with more grace than the first time.

The dragon curled up and braved a look at his wound - the human had wrapped something around his leg, and it felt tight. There was a white soft fabric around his stump that was soaked with red, but there was no paw there anymore.

The dragon looked up through the bars of his cage at the men, retreating from the building.

The dragon hated Vikings.

So, things are going places now.

I hope the amputation wasn't too awful, I didn't want to give much more detail than I did as I am of a softer disposition towards things like that.

It hurt me to do this all, but it is, unfortunately, necessary for what is to come.

My right wrist is rather painful to write as I used to for long periods, so I've been taking it slower. I may see a doctor for it, as I'm a little worried, but other than that, we should be back to good paced updates from here on out.

I'm very excited to continue this.

I hope you've all had a good day, and enjoyed the chapter, short as it is.

See you next time, stay safe.