The smell of blood, that was the first thing. The smell of copper filled his nostrils. A storm rang in his ears. Something rough and wrinkled pressed against him. Deep beneath his scales, poised to puncture the undefended meat. Like stitches run through his hide. No. His scales were gone. Torn from him like life from screaming hatchlings, clutching to their mother’s carcass. His life, the life of death itself in that tiny gorge, had been stolen away.

He tried to open his eyes, but he was stuck. Even the slightest movement required a conscious effort, as if he had forgotten how. Like learning to fly again for the first time. He focused, commanding a muscle to contract. It did, so long as he stayed focused, but there was another problem. He wasn’t sure where his eyes were anymore, and struggled to ignore the sounds, smells, and textures overwhelming his senses. He knew where his eyes should be, but he was lost in his own body. Navigating the space was like trying to catalog his hoard with his eyes closed, guessing at shapes and landmarks in the dark. Fumbling blindly, he grasped at groups of muscle with his attention.

Gradually, he formed a mental image. An image of everything stretched, pulled and pushed into unnatural dimensions, but a map to navigate by. It took an eternity. In the time it took, he could have flown the length of the forest and back, twice. But he would never make that flight again. He found no sign of the wings on which he had soared. Tears ran from his eyes like the river ran to town, and his right to fly through the heavens washed away with them, like so much sand lost in the current. He would be consigned to land. But never would his steps be stable. His gait would be forever unbalanced, awkward without his tail. Just more sand now, slipped through his grip. He was near defenseless. Talons reduced to feeble stumps. Teeth broken and blunted. His tears were another landmark to navigate by, and found the ring of muscle which seemed to allow their passage. He pulled.

The light clung to his eyes like fire. The assault on his other senses seemed sweet by comparison. It was agony. An agony that ebbed as a shape grew in the light. Is that you, Mother? Flowing, kaleidoscopic scales of gold seemed to dissolve into strands of fine silk. No. Treasure. He was a twisted, broken, crippled thing. He’d yet to suffer the pain of his injuries, of lost limbs and splintered bones, and when he did he knew he would wish for death. But before that, came the treasure. Of course. It was sublime. A physic for the soul. Even at his lowest, he was still a dragon. His tears ran renewed as the catharsis settled in his bones. He choked, sobbing laughter in an unfamiliar voice. They were wrong, and he was right. He was a wreck, and yet the words of that old fool, and of his mother, still proved false. He was better than them. No matter how hard they worked, no matter how much they gained, no matter how much they took, they still lost. Because he didn’t need to do anything. His hoard would never compare to his mother’s, but it didn’t have to, because he barely lifted a talon to get it.

“Shhh, alright.” The voice crashed into him, shaking him from his thoughts. There was an enemy. A scavenger come to feast on his carrion flesh. But he was alive. They would be the first. Their flesh would satisfy his hunger, their blood would slake his thirst, and then he would feast on all the creatures of the land. The treasure drew nearer in his blurred vision. Yes, I see. Come to your deaths, bring me my prize, my unwitting servants. You may as well be thralls. You’ve done everything short of throwing yourselves down my throat. Though he could not see it, he felt a creature, like an enormous worm of some sort, force open his maw slide inside. Something like a plate of chitin brushed against his teeth as it practically threw itself towards his throat. Towards death. Something pressed against his blunted jaws, another creature, and held them open even wider. He could have screamed, or gurgled, in jubilation. In victory. And still he felt no pain, no real pain at least. Even with the pressure, his mouth felt nothing more than sore. He focused on the muscles he needed, ready to close his maw at any moment. As the head of the worm slid over his tongue, almost gagging him, he bit with all his might! His jaw flexed, and he felt its strength, but didn’t move an inch. The worm slid back out, fast. Faster than he could track. “He wasn’t choking on anything.” A melodic voice boomed in his ears. The treasure disappeared from view, and as it did, the voice grew quieter. “Just some phlegm.”

Willaartauraxx focused on what he could see. The world was too bright, and though he’d never mistake gold, the colors were wrong. He watched as the treasure returned, and studied it. It was like seeing clearly for the first time in his life, as if he’d lived in a perpetual haze which had finally faded. “Can you hear me?” The voice pitched low, like a whisper, but still rang loudly in his ears as it drew closer. Though he saw more clearly, details seemed to elude him, and the world seemed narrow. Then he noticed what was staring him in the face. “Do you know where you are? Hey, It’s okay, don’t get up.” It was a giant. A young one, based on its size, perhaps just larger than him. It must have stripped him of his scales, bent him, broken him down and used him for parts. It lowered a hand, drawing his attention to the rough fabric wrapped around his hide, and used it to wipe a wet finger. It knew he was weak, but it also knew he was still dangerous. It had the gall to leave him unbound, but told him to stay down. And what he mistook for a treasure of golden silk had been its hair, long and unbraided. Its green eyes, framed by porcelain skin, stared down at him. Watched him carefully for any movement or aggression. It withdrew a piece of carved wood, which must have been the size of a small tree, from between his broken teeth. He didn’t know of any giants with golden hair, or light skin, and certainly none so far from the ocean. What does it want from me? What has it not taken? What can it not? He looked back, pushing and pulling against the muscles in his face, willing his lips to part, to bare his teeth in a snarl. It didn’t matter what it wanted. It was a mistake to leave him alive. As soon as I have the strength, I will end you. I will feast on your corpse. When I am done, I will cast what remains to vermin, so I may feast upon them. Only then will I be satisfied. It followed his example, baring its white teeth.

Footsteps. Another giant stepped into view. Also young. Larger than the first, its hair short and a shade darker, almost a light brown. It didn’t have any braids either, but its eyes were blue like the sea. Its voice was deeper, and louder than the first despite the distance. “Glad to see you’re awake.” It, also, bared its teeth. I will disembowel you. From you, I will take every organ, and you will die slow, to see my indulgence.

“Do you know where you are?” None of them had stopped snarling, baring their teeth, but the smaller one spoke anyway. Threatening. I know where I am. In your clutches. But what more could they take from him? He did not relent. He did not struggle to bow his head. He did not stop snarling. “That’s okay, you don’t need to talk. Take your time.”

The larger one turned, unslung a bag from it back, and drew out a boulder. “You hungry?” It held the misshapen stone before him. Feed me rocks will you? But it seemed as though they already had, and his teeth still didn’t hurt. Perhaps he was stronger than he thought. He was, after all, still a dignified dragon.

* * *

The smell of fresh flowers, and the sting of a needle. For a moment, David was reminded of home, of getting his nice clothes fitted in the run-down boutique. The moment passed quickly. “You are waking now.” The voice was distant, but seemed to grow closer. “Waking in a safe place.” His eyes flitted open. Darkness stretched as far as the eye could see. But he could see farther. “Calm, quiet, peaceful.” The sound echoed from all directions, but as he turned, he saw the man speaking. “For now.” He couldn’t turn any more. He was bound by chains. Too many chains. “It is fortunate you were so weak when I found you, I could not use you for parts, but I could not rightly discard you either. And so, through that chance of fate, she called to me.” The chains felt small, like half-size models. “For your sake, I am sorry. The colors don’t quite match.” The man strode across an elevated platform, the only sources of light two hooded lanterns on either end. Only a sliver of light shone through the hoods, but somehow it was enough to see. “But I am working with a limited palette, and you are quite far from home.” Blood. Just below the scent of flowers, he smelled blood. Not a boutique then, a sewing circle. With an exaggerated bow, the man flipped a latch, and as the first lantern’s hood fell the room was bathed in light. He was blinded, but at the same time the entire room came into view. A smile spread across the man’s face, all wide eyes and white teeth, and his voice brimmed with energy. “I just had to start working, to move past the block, to call her with my own siren song, to entice her!” He could see the whole room. Every detail at once. It was massive, a space the size of a house carved rough from stone. The reinforced beams of the wooden platform, the stage, were bound by metal rods. There was a metal door in the wall at its center. He saw the rows of cages beneath. Cages that held bodies. All cut open. The gilded metal frames supporting webs of sinew and viscera, spilling from their open chests, tied in knots around the bars. They were all missing pieces. Hearts beat intermittently in some, single lungs struggled to pump in others, and they were all missing skin and bone. The only thing they all had were heads.

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The man paced, bloodstained boots squeaking against the wood. His voice shifted in pitch as he spoke, almost singsong, gesticulating wildly with a needle that shimmered in the light. Waving it like a conductor’s baton. “I'm not going to lose this lightly, not this light, see? It's climbing off the page, crawling on the walls, scrambling to escape, but it comes when I call!" With a flourish, he knocked the hood from the second lantern. He waltzed across the stage, and his shadows cast about the room. They danced over the ceiling, the walls, the floor. Across his chains, which didn’t look half-size. David saw them. Even when he blinked he saw them. His many eyes followed them as they danced across his bloated form. He was riddled with stitches. His ebony skin ballooned out around his shoulders. Hulking, grotesque bulbs of layered muscle ran along his arms. Similar arrangements appeared over his entire body. He could feel where they were fused together. Where latticed bone baskets supported the mass. Where more muscle than could ever belong to a single human was threaded and connected. He had only two arms and legs, but he could feel where more had been added, some piecemeal and some almost whole beneath the skin, adding to his bulk. His biceps were as wide as wagon wheels, and his thighs were much the same. There wasn’t enough skin on a body to cover so much mass, and indeed, there were lines of varied flesh tones down the length of his new body. His dark skin starkly contrasted against the ring of tan bronze that started just below his shoulders, running in a perfectly straight, stitched line. From there, the rings became lighter, ending with the fifth. A pale porcelain around his calves.

“As I said.” His voice came smooth and steady now. The pair of eyes David first saw the man with, in the dark, finally adjusted to the light, and darted to follow him. Through them, he noticed stains in the man’s clothes, and his teeth seemed almost to glow. “I hope you like what I did with the color. You are a rare ink in this part of the world.” He stepped and spun erratically as he moved, his words breathy, like a hoarse whisper. “The muse, I let her sing through me… I polish with a brush, defining twists and writing psalms, so that soon she may sing through you too.”

David tore at the chains, roaring. The sound was like nothing else but rolling thunder. The man called back over the din, flinching, hands held over his ears. “Good things must end!” He danced away, metal grinding as he swung the door open. “Even me! But not the song! You will go on, striking the new path, ‘till it’s all gone!” The door swung shut, but David did not hear it. The many lungs pumping in his chest were far from empty. As the man left, wearing David’s new boots, he just kept screaming.

* * *

Ian rolled his shoulders, taking a bite from what stale bread was left in his pack, and considered the injured man. He was certainly odd, smiling like that, manic. At first glance, it might even look like a snarl. But the circumstances are equally odd. An odd reaction to odd circumstances makes some sense. The man was smiling even wider now, and one of his eyes was twitching. “Do you know your name?” He shared a look with the seamstress as the man continued to twitch, the movements spreading slowly across his face.

“Don’t hurt yourself, it’s alright,” she cooed, “just settle down.”

Ian looked to the fresh bandages around his head. He’s lucky his skull didn’t break… lucky we didn’t die in the Defiler’s Gorge, lucky I found him, lucky nothing got us on the way here, just plain lucky. When they arrived, the river water was all poison. Nasty stuff, worse they’d ever seen, or so the seamstresses said. The sewing circle should’ve at least been busier, but none of the victims survived for long. A mercy in its own way. An office sat in the corner on the ground floor, as in most sewing circles. Muffled screams escaped under the door, occasionally accompanied by the light of power. Only one woman survived the trip there, though for how long was the question on everyone’s mind. It was easier to wonder when their neighbor would die than to ask when the dragon that killed her would come knocking. The tailor was doing all she could for her, but Ian caught a glimpse on his way in. It wouldn’t be enough. Of course, you mean well, but you should let her die. She’s dead already, and she knows it.

Ian was dragged from his wandering thoughts by a question, and a deathrattle, or something that sounded like one. The seamstress had asked the man his name. He’d responded with a bubbling, coughing wheeze. “W- Wa- Will- '' he tripped over his tongue, spluttering. It must have been quite the effort, he was sweating, but the only part of his face that moved was his mouth. The rest of his face, of his body, was completely relaxed. His mouth opened all the way as he sounded it out, mostly gibberish. “Guh- Gorg- ” was all he managed before he was cut short by another coughing fit.

He had two names. A family name. Of course he does. Just my luck.

* * *

Willaartauraxx was stunned. The larger one actually took a bite out of the boulder.

“Do you know your name?” the smaller one asked him. It was all he could do to force his snarl wider. Think I’m unnamed, do you?

He tried to speak, but the shallow breaths his body took without his direction weren’t enough. It took a monumental effort, but he pushed. He found each individual muscle and forced it to move, one at a time, consciously holding each in place. His ribs gradually fell. The pressure on his lungs forced more air out through his throat. They must have broken more than just his teeth because his mouth was the wrong shape. He had to experiment, contracting muscles and adjusting positions, feeling his air run out. He panicked and had to shift his attention back to his chest, to force air back into his lungs, to breathe before he could try again. Finally, he made real sounds. Animal noises at first, but he formed the words. At every turn his broken body frustrated his efforts, but he did not surrender. A dragon does not surrender. He spoke the beginning of his name, and fumbled. Lost the trail. But it was too late to back down. If he stopped, he wouldn’t have the energy or the focus to start again. And he had to show these giants who he was. Prove them wrong and assert his dominance, so that when the day came that he took his revenge they could not claim ignorance. So he kept going. A name may not surprise them, but his title should. It was easier the second time, but before he could finish he felt a tightness in his chest turn sharp. Every muscle relaxed as he lost focus, and he felt awkward pain shoot down his chest and side as he forced his body to breathe again.

“Your name is,” the smaller one started. The giants shared a look, though he couldn’t tell what it meant, “Will George?” No! That is not my name! I have a title! They must know! Let me tell them, let me tell the world! He wanted to scream at them, at his body, at himself. But he was too weak even for that. He had pushed himself too hard. All he could do was force a snarl, so he did, as wide as he could.

“Looks like it. Never would have guessed I was dragging nobility into town. You sure I can’t offer you any bread? I have honey too.” The larger one held out the boulder again as it spoke.

“Please, Ian, he’s hurt and we don’t know if he’s been eating.” I will rip your fucking arms off!

“Right, sorry, I’ll fetch some soup.” I will eat you alive!