_Cling_ _Cling_ _Cling_

Gant's wrists had never felt this heavy. It seemed the keepers were not expecting someone of his stature; the only cuffs they brought were meant for someone with regular arms. Heck, the cuffs seemed as if they were meant for someone with large arms, but Gant's forearms might as well have been someone's biceps.

The rhythmic trotting of the horses helped calm his nerves; the cold sweats had never stopped since he was told he was marked. Very few people on the Isle of Man were ever marked; at this point, it seemed to be only something akin to fairy tales. If the keepers had only come for him because he was the bastard son of a noble, but this... they might as well have told him to put his head on the chopping block.

After that gruesome thought, he suddenly realized if they did find out that he was also carrying dragon blood in him, they might spare him. He suddenly felt some sense of relief, looking around himself for the nearest keeper, and he saw the one that had beaten him.

The man sat on the other side of the small wooden cart. It seemed they didn't spare the keepers a lot of funds for travel. He almost laughed when he thought about the stark difference in their regal armor and driving swords. He had seen the swords once before, in a situation very similar to his right now; living in the slums, he wasn't the first bastard child found there. While they were rare, it wasn't exactly unheard of for a noble to desire someone from the slums.

The thought of it made him sick. To that noble, it was just satisfying some strange desire; for that woman, it was a bleak pinhole of hope followed by extreme pain. The visual still felt fresh in his mind: the driving swords, cutting up that child and extracting its blood. The beady red eyes on the swords flashing as soon as it was 'done.'

That thought sent a chilling feeling down his spine. It seemed he needed the visual to remember why he shouldn't go and blab about what's in his veins. His palms felt even colder now. The rhythmic noise no longer felt calming but constantly felt out of beat with his heart, just increasing his anxiety. He knew they were still quite far from the inner isle, but he had already realized they weren't taking him to Il'Plut. The next nearest city would be the military outpost, Ji'Plut, the only other city named after the old god Pluto.

A somber thought suddenly hit him. He realized they were probably taking him there to prevent people from knowing a mark had surfaced on someone. This was going to be a hushed execution; somehow, that idea seemed even sadder than dying in the square like the other criminals. He would never even get his last rites heard, nor would he get his name called before they used a Reel Blade to kill him. He felt like he could no longer sit still. Why would he let himself just die? His antsiness seemed to either go unnoticed or uncared for by the captain of the keepers.

He looked around himself with a sudden realization: he was not the only criminal on the cart. The man on the far end of the cart, sitting closer to the captain than he was to Gant, was shackled much differently than Gant. The man had dark red hair that was shaved on the sides. Besides that, he looked less than remarkable. The sackcloth over his body seemed to hide any definition he might have carried in his slender frame, but Gant had to wonder why he had six shackles on his body. Besides the obvious fact that they considered him a threat and really didn't consider Gant even close to a threat.

While the man had briefly piqued his interest, his mind refocused on his plan. How would he escape before he met the tip of a Reel Blade? His hands finally seemed to calm down as he got deep into thought, but after almost an hour of deliberation, he couldn't seem to think of a way to get past the keepers in cuffs in an unknown forest. If he were back in the slums, that would be a different story. One jump into the tunnels and he would be gone. Looking around, there sadly didn't seem to be any tunnels around here for him to slide into.

As a plume of smoke came into view, he finally saw the red-haired man's face when he looked up. A sickly white, a stark contrast to his red hair, but something that seemed to suit him very well. His face dropped back down. It seemed the same thought was hitting them both: marked by the demon, marked to be killed. But Gant, in all of his anxiety, refused to go down. His palms had been sweaty, but he decided to grab onto the edge of the cart and simply jump.

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This plan had no reason to work, but he really did hope one of the old gods was still out there to take pity on him. He had already resigned his fate when he saw the plume and knew he couldn't get away from the keeper, so he decided to leave it to the hands of fate. At this point, he was running. The forests near the border mainly grew redwoods, which left very little room for shrubbery, so his path was clear ahead of him. He knew the wall was close; all Gant had to do was run to the wall and get through one of its many openings. The outside was arguably more dangerous, but a chance of survival was always better than the latter.

Getting decently far while yet to be caught, a strange feeling of elation was coming over him. His clammy feeling was temporarily going away as he felt something akin to pride for taking a risk for the first time. He was determined to take more if he managed to live through this. As he rounded the top of a hill, he saw the top of a dark brown structure. The wall to the Isle of Man, the only thing that kept them, at least most of them, safe from all that was out there. But just as quickly as he saw the freedom, he saw the blade of a driving sword go past his eye.

"Phew, thanks for going that fast. I was looking for an excuse to stretch," the tired voice came from one of the keepers he hadn't even noticed. Something else caught his eye. The keeper hadn't moved from his cart; he threw that huge sword close to 300 meters with ease. The pit seemed to get bigger in his stomach. It really seemed impossible at this point to even think of getting out of this situation.

"Be a dear and get that for me, will you," the keeper said nonchalantly, but Gant could see the sly grin never left his face. He tried to pick up the sword but quickly realized why the other keepers were all gathering to watch. His veins bulged, the sweat from all of the running began to intensify. Just as the sword slightly moved, his arms collapsed and he fell down.

After he fell, the laughing started. All of the carts were roaring. It seemed this was a common game they played with prisoners. The only person who hadn't laughed was the captain, who seemed to be inspecting Gant much more closely.

"Seems all of those muscles are just for show," one man jeered.

Another man chimed in, "The demon will mark just about anyone these days." The second's taunting had irritated him even more; his northern noble accent sounded like the squeaking of the mice in the sewers.

The keeper who had thrown the sword jumped out. He quickly made his way to his blade, passing by Gant. Without missing a beat, he tripped him on his way back to the cart. At this point, Gant knew there was really nothing he could do, at least that he was willing to try.

The rest of the ride seemed to go by peacefully with very little change, except the red-haired man seemed to glance at Gant more often instead of just staring at the floor.

Upon approaching the gates, they were very thoroughly inspected. Even though they were with recognized keepers, the military city had a very tight choke on security. As they approached the square, a place every city seemed to have, a designated area for executions, the pit in his stomach had grown to the size of a melon. He felt his breathing was constricted, and small muscles began to spasm. His fear was beginning to encompass him. Until, until they simply passed the square, suddenly his body felt a weight lift.

The party of three carts made their way through the city until they reached a second walled area. Gant was able to recognize this area as the military district within the town, the largest one in all cities. Making their way past training grounds filled with people wielding different types of blades, he could see driving swords, Reel Blades, but not just that; he even saw one man wielding a bleeding blade that is thought to be the hardest type of blade to wield, a stinger. As they went past, this was one of the few times he saw the red-haired man genuinely intrigued during their trip. The man's almost crimson eyes seemed to shine for just a second.

Finally, getting to the very back of the camp, they were ushered into a tent that seemed to belong to someone important. Gant's skin crawled as he could recognize the decorations as various trophies from outside the walls, but he had no clue what any of the creatures were. He could recognize one of the decorations, one of the famous dragon's teeth. The aura that came off of it felt prideful and dangerous. He could sense his arms tingling, and looking down, the criss-cross pattern of scales almost appeared. The pattern had appeared once in the past, but he could generally keep it under control.

The man that seemed to have collected this assortment of 'prizes' looked at them with a smile that defied the rest of his features. Just looking at him sent shivers down Gant's back. The man stood almost a full head over Gant, who was not short by any means. His build was lean, but at his height, it made him more imposing. His deep sunken eyes seemed to hold some scary stories. All of this, with what seemed to be a bad attempt at a welcoming smile, sat awfully with him.

"Welcome, our prized marked ones. How would you like to see the white tower?" The man seemed to be trying his best to seem welcoming, and maybe Gant would have felt his sincerity if it wasn't for his hands being shackled and the manhunt it took to get him here.