Shielding the Beast (discontinued)

One | Blackpool

The darkness fades like dying smoke, allowing for the colors of sight to reclaim my vision. A man's face is staring right into mine, leaving a mere five inches of space to separate us.

His dull, ugly brown eyes hold a sickening pleasure within them. They burn into the contours of my face, unblinking. His dirty blond hair is extremely short, like that of a buzz cut with sideburns coming down past the tops of his ears.

I don't allow myself to flinch at his invasion of my personal space, nor do I allow him to strike fear into me.

As I take in my environment I realize exactly what this place is.

Various weapons line the oak-wooded walls, all sharpened and gleaming. Firelight flickers in the reflections of their flawless blades, coming from the torches mounted beside them.

The floor is made of cobblestone, proving to be cold against the bottoms of my feet. The distinct smell of scorching coals fills the room, as does the faint crackling that comes with it. The sickening, putrid odor of charcoaled meat lingers. I hold my breath as long as I can, trying not to recoil. The archway to my left, which looks to lead into a stony hallway, seems to be the passageway to wherever the foul stench is coming from.

Then I realize the pain when I go to move. The frying.

The steady burning of the silver shackles binding my ankles and wrists barely fazes me. Nor does the large bands of metal across my stomach. The pain turns to numbness when sitting still, slowly snaking its way up my limbs.

I make sure not to move. Even the twitch of a single finger would set my skin ablaze again. That's something I've learned over the years. The more you struggle, the hotter it burns. Only when completely frozen in place will the pain eventually deaden itself to an intense, vigorous tingling.

The tingling is still painful, and may even be unbearable to normal wolves. But to me, it's a coping method when compared to the raw agony. I've become as accustomed as anyone can be to it, leaving me with only a mild discomfort.

Sitting in this wooden chair for so long has made me stiff and desperate for movement. The amount of time that I've been here is a mystery, although my memory of how I came to be here is perfectly clear.

"Yer 'ungry in' cha, ya bitch," the man speaks to me with a gruff voice.

His speech is laden with a thick cockney accent. Before I was netted to the ground and captured, I recall being in a forest, Gisburn maybe. Judging by this hunter's dialect, I'm still in England at the least.

"Too sorry and sad we got ya before ya caught that lil' bambi, innit?" His reference to the hunt between myself and a red deer only irritates me. My teeth were so close to its scruff before they had to interfere.

But I reward his words with no response, no matter how bitter I am about the matter. My eyes do not meet his, nor do I open my mouth to answer the taunting. My focus remains on the wall behind him, making it clear that I don't possess any intention to cooperate.

"'Mm. The silent type. Wot's your name, mutt?"

I show no reaction.

"I asked ya a question. Na answer it."

His command is disregarded, my behavior remaining unaltered.

The side of my face then lights up, my head being thrown to the side by the impact of his palm on my cheek.

My head stays turned to the right, in the position he left it. The canines within my mouth press against each other as my jaw clenches with the force of a boa constrictor. I'm angry, and having to restrain myself is only more agitating.