I don't own ROTG, period. End of sentance.
. . .
Another day, another fight with Pitch, nothing new here. The boogieman is starting to get predicable. Two stabs, a punch, three fearlings unleashed. He hasn't changed his battle plan for the past month. He's been beaten so many times, it's like he's hardly even putting up a fight anymore. Frosty sighs, feeling bored out of his frozen mind. This is worse than the time Pitch captured him. Then, his friends weren't in any danger (not that they really are now). Not to mention he could scream in frustration without the Guardians thinking he was hurt.
"That's it. Pitch, I'm begging you. PLEASE, think of something new. Burn my staff, make a cyclone of fearlings, do something!" Jack growls, totally fed up.
"Ah, but I have!" Pitch sneers, snapping his fingers.
A large ball of sand flies over to Jack, making the frost spirit take off through the trees. The two swerve around branches, almost slamming into them. The sand-ball starts gaining on our hero, forcing him to speed up. Frosty wonders where this has happened before. It just seems so familiar.
Now, any gamer under the sun knows if you speed up, you sacrifice safety, and usually lives. So with the trees whipping around him, and a mass of nightmare sand about to swallow him, it's no too much of a surprise that he smashes headlong into a tree. Oh, yeah, that's what so familiar about this. Our "Tarzan" blacks out almost instantly, a goofy grin on his face.
. . .
Frostbite dreams of when he first learned to ride the wind, a task that nearly killed him.
. . .
Frosty looks up at the birds, frowning. It seems he can fly, a little, but Jack can't get the hang of it. How is he supposed to spread winter if he has to hoof it?! What about when summer finally rears its ugly head?! He'll melt like an ice cube in a volcano, that's what. Frostbite grits his teeth and resolves to learn to properly ride the wind, or (gulp) die in the attempt.
First things first, how should he get into the air in the first place? Just jump onto the nearest current, call North wind, or jump out of a tree? He decides to just try calling North Wind. He might accidentally jump or land on South wind,and he doesn't feel like being flung into a snowdrift at the moment.
North happily obliges, but a bit too happily. Jack face-plants inot some poor kids' snowman, wondering if he'd have better luck with walking. They don't say flying's for the birds for nothing.
. . .
This happens a few more times, causing Frostbite to fracture his leg, and badly bruise every bone in his body. He eventually gets the hang of it, laughing as the sparrows start to give him funny looks. (Those looks consisting of their beaks dropping open or their eyes popping out.) It's, over all, a fairly productive day. Heck, he even managed to rub it in South's . . . um, face?
. . .
Frost opens his weary eyes, groaning when he's met with a splitting headache and a fearling's hoof on his chest. He did ask for Pitch to try something new, didn't he? Be careful what you wish for. Yeah, yeah, next time he's bored to tears he'll keep his trap shut.
"Well Pitch, what now? Do I hafta give you some more ideas, or are we-"
"Just look this way, smart alec." Pitch interrupts, appearing from the underbrush.
"Don't DO that!" Jack yelps, then turns pale (I mean REALLY pale). Pitch is holding up the winter spirit's staff.
Jack lets out another feral growl, knowing all too well what Pitch is about to do. He braces himself, and looks Pitch straight in the eye, determined not to give him a reaction. One break, clean down the middle. He can do this. He won't let the boogeyman have the satisfaction of a reaction. He can stick it out for a break . . . or two.
Unfortunately, Pitch doesn't plan on letting the Guardian of Fun off that easily.
*CRACK!* Jack shivers, but only slightly.
*SNAP!* He clenches his fists, not breaking his glare.
*THWACK* His knuckles turn white.
*CRA-!* Jack looks up tiredly, wondering if Pitch just wants to drag this out.
The Guardians are all standing around Pitch, murderous looks in their eyes. They all have their weapons centered on various points of his body, all of them lethal. Bunnymund speaks first, but through clenched teeth.
"Put down that staff, an' ya won't get killed."
"I thought the saying went 'put the down and you won't get hurt.'" Pitch, ever glib, replies.
"I can't make that kind of a promise."
The Guardian of Fun considers this a good time to black out, hoping to postpone the coming lecture as soon as possible.
. . .
And that's a rap! Managed to make it through the whole thing without a single footnote, too!