A Compilation of Fantasy Concepts

Chapter 3...Dragon in a Toxic City

"..Maiali rossi..."

...A cool breeze blew against the old, oversized brown shirt, the only piece of clothing upon Sonata's body. The young dragon's vision was distorted by a small wall of glaze that had formed atop her eyes. Not tears, for her body was bone dry, starved so her limbs had begun to look more and more like branches with every passing day. Just glaze. Blurry and thin, like a layer of frost.

Even though the girl could not bring herself to see the crowd of pigs gold-stuffed and gathered about the stage, her skin tickled and tingled at the intensity of every gaze. She heard their hoggish groans, the steppedy steps of heir happy hooved feet upon the wooden floor of the dock, the creeak as a male hog made his way back up the crooked steps of the makeshift stage, the stack of crates where she stood.

Flesh.

Fleshy naked bare burning hairless monkeys.

The stench of human overwhelmed the dragon as a rotten-smelling hand cuffed itself around her left arm, hard and painful, almost breaking her as she heard a set of small clanks and clicks, the silver making a small sound as it slipped away from around her wrists, revealing a set of identical burns where the cold metal had rubbed against her skin.

Still, she couldn't escape.

The small thing's stiff trembling became more visible as she was pulled forward, her scrawny arm forced so it was extended towards the sky. The hoarse groans of the hogs rung stale in the harbor's air. By now, the gazes had multiplied, intensified, stealing pieces off every inch of the girl's small body, her head tilted to face her arm, eyes open as if she could see it, as if she was looking it over to make sure it was okay. The hoarse groans and creaks doubled, tripled, like a froggy convention. Like toads. A small, broken whimper escaped the dragon's lips, unheard by a single soul, not that the brutes about her possessed one. A half-hearted attempt to take back her arm went unexecuted as the chaotic calls finally dimmed into murmurs and what sounded like curses, another set of hooves making their way up the stage.

The clinking of metal.

The voices were now limited to a conversation between only two; the one with possession of her arm, and an unknown identity, supposedly male, also. A set of more concentrated croaking, the passing of coins. Sonata's arm was allowed to lower as the much larger one loosened its grip, moving down to her wrist. Her shoulders shook as the dragon squeezed her eyes shut, forcing her her head forward without making a sound. It hurt.

The wind came in from a different direction now, as did the grip of the hand, the temperature of the hoof.

She was being handed over.

✖✖✖

The city in the sky.

The harbor was crowded today, the sky dotted with clouds, not gloomy, not hot. Just right, just right. It was the thirty sixth day of the new regime. The thirty-sixth month since the decelerations of war, since this world was divided in seven. The capital of the human realm, kept guard over by a wall so marvelous it looked like a castle from afar.

A large red ship had come into her harbor, The Rosalita, as markings told. One by one, chained at the wrist and sometimes the ankle, too, the cargo was filed out. The depressive scene was not uncommon here. Most were prisoners of war, criminals, family members sold to repay debt that couldn't have been paid if the king himself handed over his throne room and all the treasures within, If you searched well enough, you'd find the occasional mother holding tightly to bundles that had long since stopped breathing. They'd learnt long ago to let them keep the lifeless dolls, that attempts to rip the corpses away would only cause a needless scene.

They walked past along the platform, shoulder to shoulder, but there was something towards the left that caught your eye. Smaller than usual, a child of about eight or nine, a scrawny little thing that didn't pay mind to any particular adult, that seemed to stand out all alone.  There were bruises all over her body, patches of exposed flesh about the edges of her cheeks and the sides of her knees, with the occasional translucent scale that had already begun to grow back after being peeled off the night before, same way the scales of a fish are cleaned to the skin before being handed over to an eager shopper. Her hair was light green, like mist, almost white. It was long and straight and thin but silky, going all the way down to her legs. Clean bandages were wrapped roughly about one eye. They wouldn't do any good to a wound, they were there to conceal, not heal.

Before long, the bidding began. She wasn't human. A prisoner of war, then. By law, she should have been put to death. Her captors didn't do a very good concealing it, too. But no one enfoced those laws. The main importance of them was that they singled out oddities, beings and half-lings like her that weren't human. The war was one against the races, brains to fist, technology to raw power. Prisoners of war were things. Items to be sold, owned, used. They weren't people. You watched from a distance as your own voice joined the bidding, jumping digits till the crowds about you went silent, till you were the only one left.

It happened so quickly.

You hadn't gone out for this, and you handed over every last coin in your pocket with a sigh. You hadn't meant to buy one. I didn't make sense to. You looked at the child in front of you. Her hands and feet were dirty, nails overgrown and chipped. You watched her suffer at just the touch of your hand, moving it away to find burns. The child followed you down the steps, trembling as the crowd's attention went on so the next in line, a few bunches walked away or returned to their own conversations. Somewhere along the line you heard a small whisper. You couldn't really pinpoint a location, but the corner of your eyes caught the closing of the girl's lips. It wasn't English. Maiali rossi. It was Italian. Italian for 'red pigs.'