Bound To You

Chapter 2

Areven

It could've been days later or hours later when the men came.

Areven had lost so much blood he was barely coherent. A few steps away from death's doorstep. Nevertheless, he was thankful when the men cut him down.

His vision went in and out, but he made out that they were all dressed the same. Black tunic with a red emblem of a chevron.

They pried the trap off his ankle and he passed out.

His vision went in and out in blurry spurts, enough to know that everytime the darkness cleared, a large chunk of time had passed. Splashes of forest above him were frequent, yet sometimes he was up close with blades of grass and practically breathing in dirt.

His entire body ached, and he could feel the strange sense of movement it was going through. After a while, he realized he was being dragged along the forest floor. Towed behind a horse like an unruly sack of shit. He would've cared more, but he was too out of it.

In and out, his vision only gave him snapshots of images, of muffled voices he couldn't comprehend.

''Good catch...higher rate....manor....collection...freak...''

Suddenly, the constant motion stopped, jarring Areven from his dazed state. He blinked, waiting for the world to come into picture. At first he thought he was seeing a large, castle-looking structure attached to a very steep cliff...then belatedly realized he was laying down.

''Welcome to Blackmanor.'' A throaty voice chuckled. ''You poor fucking sap.''

His vision blacked out again.

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The next time he gained lucidity, he was held upright by two struggling men. Struggling because Areven was well over six feet and packed with muscle upon muscle. A requirement if he wanted to be strong enough to survive and provide for his Tribe.

''...his tattoos,'' Someone said reverently, like they were looking at a rare gemstone. ''I've never seen anything like it.''

''We don't think he's from the continent.''

Areven seemed to be in some sort of study.

A fucked up study.

Racks of clear jars held preserved body parts, but not any body parts—body parts that were clearly from mythical or magical races. Seven toed feet, webbed fingers, horned skulls, needle sharp teeth, fangs of all varieties, scales ingrained to skin, and a whole slew of other items.

He had to look away, seconds away from being sick on the spot. Only now he was faced with a different man in front of him. After blinking a few more times, he came into better focus.

Short and stout, with a harsh face, blazing dark eyes of a rat, and entirely bald. He dripped wealth. Fat rings on every fat finger, an ornate waistcoat with gold buckles, polished shoes, and about ten layers of gold and silver chained necklaces somehow didn't strangle him. They were all inlaid with some sort of rich jew or gemstone. He reeked of overindulgence, not only the whisky on his person, but the fat bulge of his belly, bursting at the buttons of his waistcoat.

    "He will be the newest addition to my collection.'' He said, and snapped his fingers. ''Pay them the finder's fee.''

    You gotta be fucking kidding me.

    Guards dragged him down hallways upon hallways, all leading to exceedingly ornate rooms. He realized that fat fuck must be the Lord or Baron of wherever the fuck he was...Blackmanor, one of the guards had said.

    Turning down yet another hallway, Areven stumbled. The pain of his ankle was so much worse now that he was more coherent and he groaned as it intensified every time his foot jostled. His entire body ached, and as the pain started to make his vision black in and out again, he realized he was thankful. He'd rather not be conscious and have to deal with wherever the fuck they were taking him.

    A shrilling creak of a door being shoved open scraped at his ears and he vaguely got the impression they were descending down a staircase. All natural light vanished, replaced by dim torches and lanterns.

    His good foot gave out, no longer having the energy to carry off of his weight with so much blood loss. Guards swore and Areven succumbed to the pull of darkness once more.