If You Go Hunting A Tiger... (Chapter 10)
Jun. 19th, 2024 01:17 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aliyn_raven— 10 —
Emil, thanks for the preliminary reading.
The flight was short and ended with a rather unpleasant contact with the floor, onto which the dragon carelessly placed me. It's a good thing he didn't throw me.
The net had partially disappeared, and only my mouth and hands were tied, and my legs had fetters so that I could barely walk.
The dragon (Or is this his servant? Now he was a guy of about twenty-three, dressed in a red and purple robe from the tenth century) turned me around a little and pushed me in the back. I hobbled across the huge ancient hall of the castle in the direction indicated. We passed under the arch, which changed colour from white to green and then turned white again. The arch didn't match the style of the grey stone walls at all, and it looked new. It looked like some kind of detector.
The corridor we walked along was quite long and led us to the foot of the stairs to the tower. I pretended that with such fetters on my feet and no way to balance with my hands, I couldn't climb the stairs. But the trick didn't help. The convoyer grabbed me with his arms and... It was probably that same teleportation that fantasy novels talked about.
Everything around us turned into a flickering of colour spots for a moment, and we found ourselves in a spacious room, from the windows of which we could see snow-capped mountains, over which the dawn was rising. And there are no signs of habitation. Bad. It is not clear how to escape from here. And it is unknown whether it is possible to escape at all without a helicopter or a teleport. Alnorria is a tiny island, and its permafrost zone is packed with tourists looking for a change of pace between summer skiing in Austria and Italy. However, this doesn't mean that there are no deserted wilderness areas between the hotels in Alnorria where it is impossible to survive without equipment and mountaineering training. Not to mention warm clothes and food supplies.
And only after realising this truth did I notice the completely mediaeval furnishings of the room; the only modern things here were the window panes, lamps, and a heater. It was standing next to a very fat woman with an emaciated face. It sounds strange to mention emaciation together with fatness, but that's exactly it: she looked as if she had been loading sacks of potatoes for three days without sleep or rest. Not in terms of clothing; her robe was clean, fresh, and quite expensive, but the general tiredness of the woman herself evoked associations with slave labour in the fields. This thought was also encouraged by the fact that the woman sat behind an extremely huge frame with dense silk and embroidered.
"This is Alex, my wife," the guy told her.
What?! I even jumped at such a statement. And the woman screamed hysterically:
"This is Blackrocks! Throw her into the abyss immediately!"
This shit even better than previous... By the way, these two maniacs speak Old-Alnorrian.
And there isn't the slightest hope that I have gone crazy; I ended up in the clinic, and a beneficial injection of haloperidol will stop this delirium.
"She's a Terrent," the guy objected to the woman.
"You're a weakling and a shame for your father," the woman hissed. "But he," she said, putting her hand on her stomach, "senses sacrilege blood in her!"
"Blackrocks' blood runs through all the old families of Aesa. Even you."
"It is as fresh as morning dew in her!" The woman got angry. "Who was her mother?"
"A refugee from Rudlig," the guy snorted. "And Dave Terrent was married to Fiona Lightwell."
"So her mother is a whore who cuckolded Albert Terrent with the Blackrocks! And her brat can only be a whore!"
"She's Albert Terrent's daughter. Genetic testing is never wrong," the guy insisted.
While they were bickering, my fidgeting with my jaw and wrists brought results: the bonds on my hands loosened, and those that were on my face fell off.
"I have long ceased to be a virgin!" I immediately screamed. "Everyone knows that dragons only kidnap virgins! But I've had plenty of lovers and..."
"It doesn't matter," the woman interrupted me. "You yourselves destroyed this rule with your sexual revolution and feminism. Chastity became an empty phrase." She looked at the guy. "But this wench is Blackrocks. And she will bring only evil. Throw her into the abyss immediately and find yourself a good wife!"
"I don't know anything about any Blackrocks," I quickly intervened. "And if you bring me back to the city, I won't tell anyone anything. Just think about it: if I even mention dragons, everyone will think I'm crazy and won't listen."
"Terrent doesn't know about the Blackrocks?" the woman asked sarcastically. "You couldn't invent a more stupid lie."
"I'm Calvin. My mother and Albert Terrent decided to run away on different roads before I was born. Oh, I'm illegitimate! I don't match your bloodline."
"I already said that after whores in your parliament equalised the rights of legitimate children with bastards, the concept of chastity disappeared," the woman threw at me and again began to insist on the guy that the brat of the Blackrocks should be thrown into the abyss.
It's obvious that the Blackrocks are some kind of clan in Aesa, and Fiona Lightwell made my father together with one of their representatives.
However, this doesn't make it any easier for me. I frantically thought up arguments in my defence, but nothing came to mind. And the guy said:
"This woman has a strong gift of folitvoner. She will pass it on to my sons."
"A woman can't pass on anything! Our nature is to continue the gifts of our husbands, and nothing more."
Hmm. Misogyny is disgusting, but female misogyny is terrible. Especially when it's generously seasoned with stupidity. The guy said mockingly:
"When did you manage to become a geneticist? And if the woman can't pass on anything, why are you afraid of the descendant of Violette Blackrocks and don't want to recognise my wife as the descendant of Ramder Narriun? If you haven't forgotten, Violette Blackrocks ran away from my ancestor while pregnant, gave birth safely, and lived to see numerous grandchildren and great-grandchildren."
Wow, she could have run away? And she did it, apparently, quite a long time ago, several generations ago. Well, that's encouraging.
The woman wanted to say something, but the guy interrupted:
"This is my will and my order. If you want to change it, first be born, grow up, and win a duel with me for supremacy over the clan."
Who is he addressing? An embryo or something? He really is a complete psycho.
The woman wanted to answer, but the guy got ahead of her:
"I swear that my wife will not touch paper, pens, or ink. Pencils, markers, or slates either. And I will lock her up more securely than Ramder locked up Violette."
The guy suddenly hit me in the face.
"This is the first lesson in obedience," he said, not so much to me as to the woman. She became as pleased as a cur who had eaten his fill of meat. And I was too shocked and scared to say anything meaningful.
"It's still a bad idea," the woman said.
"But my wife has a good dowry."
"Eleanor Terrent has an even better dowry," the woman answered angrily. "And she knows her place and purpose well."
"Eleanor Terrent is pregnant. And I can't wait for her to give birth. You know very well that a wife must appear in the house of Narriun before Lughnasadh this year. And Litha ended the day before yesterday. Or do you want the Narriun house to acquire a human bastard for many years and his descendants forever? Eleanor's offspring can only be left in the Terrents' house or in the shelter after she gives birth!"
"You would have given her a miscarriage!" The woman was angry. "It isn't a sin to interrupt the insignificant blood. And if you are too weak for such magic, your brother would have done it."
"He doesn't see what he is doing yet," the guy answered calmly. "His miscarriage will make Eleanor sterile. This chick didn't get pregnant during the wedding season for nothing."
"Then any low-born girl on the church threshold is better than a wench with Blackrocks blood! Or are you so weak that you can't even steal a wife for yourself?"
I didn't understand anything in their gibberish anymore. I just wanted to sleep. It was already morning, and I hadn't slept all night. So I need to get some; I must sleep, eat, and then think it over and find a way to escape.
The guy was also tired of the discussion. He growled, "I have decided and declared my will!" He grabbed me and teleported again. The new room was similar to the one the woman had been sitting in, but it was clearly not lived in; the furniture had been assembled in a hurry; they didn't match each other in style; and the cleaning had also been done poorly—the cobwebs had not been swept off the walls everywhere.
However, on the table there was an expensive graphics tablet in a store box and a box with an additional set of stylus attachments. There was also a laptop, but judging by the half-erased children's stickers on the case, it was old and weak, bought at some flea market.
The guy said:
"Sorry for hitting you. But I must silence my mother. While she is pregnant with a boy, she needs to participate in the most important ceremonies and rituals, almost like a man. And there her words will be heard, since dragons believe that it is not the woman who speaks but the man in her womb. She saw the slap and almost calmed down. Therefore, she will not ask for help from the families related to the Narriuns."
It sounded like nonsense, but dragons are clearly not the brightest. However, this one specifically seems to have the beginnings of a brain. And I said:
"Do you understand that I don't want to be your wife?"
"I don't want to marry you either. I especially don't need children. So don't be afraid; I won't get into your briefs. You will make the idru-folitvons I need, and you will be free. I will take you to the station in Gilwell and give you money for tickets to any point in Alnorria."
He really isn't stupid. Gilwell is the largest rail and road junction in Aesa. Almost the entire town is one big hotel with rooms of different price categories, and you can easily hide from everyone.
But it's not that simple. There are too many dangerous details for me that this dude wants to keep silent about. And I risked testing the waters:
"Idru-folitvon is a ligature with a more complex pattern than the usual quadristella. The work is expensive; how will you pay?"
"You should pay me for saving you from marrying the exiled dragons. Dave Terrent sold you to them for the elixir of life. If it weren't for me, you'd be one sex slave for four, living in a cage and giving birth every year until you died."
"And these four shared the joy of the purchase with you?" I asked ironically.
"Eleanor Terrent was supposed to be my wife. But she found out who your grandfather wanted to sell her to. Eleanor is incredibly stupid, but she is very good at eavesdropping. And one of her closest servants, not wanting to lose a lucrative, easy job, advised her to get pregnant as soon as possible. Now she is out of marriage access for a year, and a year is a long time. During this time, either the shah or the donkey will die."
I was a little surprised. But not by Eleanor's intrigues or Dave's machinations, but by the fact that my interlocutor knows a fairy tale popular in the Near and Middle East that is little known in Europe. Fatima told it to me.
In short, a cheerful, kind swindler, who has his own name in every country, tricked a greedy Shah (emir, maharajah, sultan, etc.) out of a thousand gold pieces to help the poor under the pretext that in ten years he would teach a donkey to speak better than the shah himself. And to the concern of the poor that the Shah would execute the swindler for such a trick, the said swindler said: "Ten years is a long time. During this time, either the Shah or the donkey will die, and then the Almighty himself will not say which of them spoke better. And while you have money to feed your children during the bad harvest, I have a young thoroughbred donkey for travel. Let us rejoice in the present, but not fear the future."
But the point is not in the fairy tale but in the fact that my interlocutor, who never told me his name, is not telling me much if he is not lying with every word.
"Why does Eleanor need these body movements," I asked, "if she can easily take her share of the property from Dave and go to the US or England? There will be more than enough money for her to spend the rest of her life lounging on the couch, watching TV series during the day, and walking around fashionable brands in nightclubs that are significantly above average in the evening. If Eleanor also files a lawsuit on behalf of her son, she will have enough not only for round-the-clock nannies and a good boarding school but also for excellent security."
"You're talking like a rootless shopkeeper," the guy curled his lips. "If Eleanor takes the money, she won't want for anything for the rest of her days, and she'll even leave something to her grandchildren, but she'll turn from Miss Terrent into a nameless nobody."
"As if you or any other dragon couldn't buy her from Dave next year," I said.
"A noble dragon would never marry a female human, even if she was a princess. It would be a humiliating misalliance. A commoner who doesn't have the magic or money to guard his wife well will steal a simpleton, and a very simple one even by human standards: she has an ultra-religious family and is homeschooled; that is, she is illiterate, unable to live independently in the big world, and accustomed to obedience. The Narriuns have suffered some hardships and have been forced to take human wives for generations. But they were from ancient families. In Aesa, all the old families are connected with dragons. The Narriuns are not the only ones who have known bad times. But I am the only one who is not married. So, thanks to you being here, Eleanor's fate is safe."
"For religious people, a dragon is the spawn of the devil." I didn't believe it.
"What, you don't know the teachings of the Alnorrian Bible Church at all?" The guy was surprised. "Dragons are blessed to protect and guard this island; serving them is an honour for a human."
"The Alnorrian Church is Protestant, so it doesn't have a single structure with one supreme government. There is only a general council of everyone and no one—a very amorphous union. And in every parish of the Alnorrian Church, there are many different sub-churches and movements with their own teachings. Outside of Aesa, no one has ever mentioned dragons anywhere. There are no bad words, no good ones. For most people in Alnorria, dragons are a fairy tale. Or the ravings of madmen. You don't just hide from the world for nothing."
"It doesn't matter," the guy said. "The important thing for you is that I saved you, so you owe me idru-folitvon."
I only owe him a good slap in the face and a lawsuit for kidnapping, but it's unwise to say that out loud. And then there are those four dragons that Dave allegedly sold me to.
"The bathroom is there," the guy said. "I will bring you lunch by one o'clock. Do not try to leave the room. Your tribe can't cast spells, but a female human pregnant with a dragon gains a little magic. My mother will come to check if I have locked you in well. That is why my friend, the one who brought you here, set as many death traps as necessary to calm her down."
"Where's your father?" I asked.
"He died. But before that, he managed to impregnate my mother. And that's why I got a chance for freedom. I'll explain everything to you over lunch."
He left.
And I went to wash myself and think about why this lover of folitvons didn't turn to the hundreds of designers who graduate from Alnorrian universities every year.
Something about all this was wrong. And it for sure stinks.
And how did Violette Blackrocks escape?
https://archiveofourown.org/works/44014216
https://www.fictionpress.com/s/3371534/1/If-you-go-hunting-a-tiger
Emil, thanks for the preliminary reading.
The flight was short and ended with a rather unpleasant contact with the floor, onto which the dragon carelessly placed me. It's a good thing he didn't throw me.
The net had partially disappeared, and only my mouth and hands were tied, and my legs had fetters so that I could barely walk.
The dragon (Or is this his servant? Now he was a guy of about twenty-three, dressed in a red and purple robe from the tenth century) turned me around a little and pushed me in the back. I hobbled across the huge ancient hall of the castle in the direction indicated. We passed under the arch, which changed colour from white to green and then turned white again. The arch didn't match the style of the grey stone walls at all, and it looked new. It looked like some kind of detector.
The corridor we walked along was quite long and led us to the foot of the stairs to the tower. I pretended that with such fetters on my feet and no way to balance with my hands, I couldn't climb the stairs. But the trick didn't help. The convoyer grabbed me with his arms and... It was probably that same teleportation that fantasy novels talked about.
Everything around us turned into a flickering of colour spots for a moment, and we found ourselves in a spacious room, from the windows of which we could see snow-capped mountains, over which the dawn was rising. And there are no signs of habitation. Bad. It is not clear how to escape from here. And it is unknown whether it is possible to escape at all without a helicopter or a teleport. Alnorria is a tiny island, and its permafrost zone is packed with tourists looking for a change of pace between summer skiing in Austria and Italy. However, this doesn't mean that there are no deserted wilderness areas between the hotels in Alnorria where it is impossible to survive without equipment and mountaineering training. Not to mention warm clothes and food supplies.
And only after realising this truth did I notice the completely mediaeval furnishings of the room; the only modern things here were the window panes, lamps, and a heater. It was standing next to a very fat woman with an emaciated face. It sounds strange to mention emaciation together with fatness, but that's exactly it: she looked as if she had been loading sacks of potatoes for three days without sleep or rest. Not in terms of clothing; her robe was clean, fresh, and quite expensive, but the general tiredness of the woman herself evoked associations with slave labour in the fields. This thought was also encouraged by the fact that the woman sat behind an extremely huge frame with dense silk and embroidered.
"This is Alex, my wife," the guy told her.
What?! I even jumped at such a statement. And the woman screamed hysterically:
"This is Blackrocks! Throw her into the abyss immediately!"
This shit even better than previous... By the way, these two maniacs speak Old-Alnorrian.
And there isn't the slightest hope that I have gone crazy; I ended up in the clinic, and a beneficial injection of haloperidol will stop this delirium.
"She's a Terrent," the guy objected to the woman.
"You're a weakling and a shame for your father," the woman hissed. "But he," she said, putting her hand on her stomach, "senses sacrilege blood in her!"
"Blackrocks' blood runs through all the old families of Aesa. Even you."
"It is as fresh as morning dew in her!" The woman got angry. "Who was her mother?"
"A refugee from Rudlig," the guy snorted. "And Dave Terrent was married to Fiona Lightwell."
"So her mother is a whore who cuckolded Albert Terrent with the Blackrocks! And her brat can only be a whore!"
"She's Albert Terrent's daughter. Genetic testing is never wrong," the guy insisted.
While they were bickering, my fidgeting with my jaw and wrists brought results: the bonds on my hands loosened, and those that were on my face fell off.
"I have long ceased to be a virgin!" I immediately screamed. "Everyone knows that dragons only kidnap virgins! But I've had plenty of lovers and..."
"It doesn't matter," the woman interrupted me. "You yourselves destroyed this rule with your sexual revolution and feminism. Chastity became an empty phrase." She looked at the guy. "But this wench is Blackrocks. And she will bring only evil. Throw her into the abyss immediately and find yourself a good wife!"
"I don't know anything about any Blackrocks," I quickly intervened. "And if you bring me back to the city, I won't tell anyone anything. Just think about it: if I even mention dragons, everyone will think I'm crazy and won't listen."
"Terrent doesn't know about the Blackrocks?" the woman asked sarcastically. "You couldn't invent a more stupid lie."
"I'm Calvin. My mother and Albert Terrent decided to run away on different roads before I was born. Oh, I'm illegitimate! I don't match your bloodline."
"I already said that after whores in your parliament equalised the rights of legitimate children with bastards, the concept of chastity disappeared," the woman threw at me and again began to insist on the guy that the brat of the Blackrocks should be thrown into the abyss.
It's obvious that the Blackrocks are some kind of clan in Aesa, and Fiona Lightwell made my father together with one of their representatives.
However, this doesn't make it any easier for me. I frantically thought up arguments in my defence, but nothing came to mind. And the guy said:
"This woman has a strong gift of folitvoner. She will pass it on to my sons."
"A woman can't pass on anything! Our nature is to continue the gifts of our husbands, and nothing more."
Hmm. Misogyny is disgusting, but female misogyny is terrible. Especially when it's generously seasoned with stupidity. The guy said mockingly:
"When did you manage to become a geneticist? And if the woman can't pass on anything, why are you afraid of the descendant of Violette Blackrocks and don't want to recognise my wife as the descendant of Ramder Narriun? If you haven't forgotten, Violette Blackrocks ran away from my ancestor while pregnant, gave birth safely, and lived to see numerous grandchildren and great-grandchildren."
Wow, she could have run away? And she did it, apparently, quite a long time ago, several generations ago. Well, that's encouraging.
The woman wanted to say something, but the guy interrupted:
"This is my will and my order. If you want to change it, first be born, grow up, and win a duel with me for supremacy over the clan."
Who is he addressing? An embryo or something? He really is a complete psycho.
The woman wanted to answer, but the guy got ahead of her:
"I swear that my wife will not touch paper, pens, or ink. Pencils, markers, or slates either. And I will lock her up more securely than Ramder locked up Violette."
The guy suddenly hit me in the face.
"This is the first lesson in obedience," he said, not so much to me as to the woman. She became as pleased as a cur who had eaten his fill of meat. And I was too shocked and scared to say anything meaningful.
"It's still a bad idea," the woman said.
"But my wife has a good dowry."
"Eleanor Terrent has an even better dowry," the woman answered angrily. "And she knows her place and purpose well."
"Eleanor Terrent is pregnant. And I can't wait for her to give birth. You know very well that a wife must appear in the house of Narriun before Lughnasadh this year. And Litha ended the day before yesterday. Or do you want the Narriun house to acquire a human bastard for many years and his descendants forever? Eleanor's offspring can only be left in the Terrents' house or in the shelter after she gives birth!"
"You would have given her a miscarriage!" The woman was angry. "It isn't a sin to interrupt the insignificant blood. And if you are too weak for such magic, your brother would have done it."
"He doesn't see what he is doing yet," the guy answered calmly. "His miscarriage will make Eleanor sterile. This chick didn't get pregnant during the wedding season for nothing."
"Then any low-born girl on the church threshold is better than a wench with Blackrocks blood! Or are you so weak that you can't even steal a wife for yourself?"
I didn't understand anything in their gibberish anymore. I just wanted to sleep. It was already morning, and I hadn't slept all night. So I need to get some; I must sleep, eat, and then think it over and find a way to escape.
The guy was also tired of the discussion. He growled, "I have decided and declared my will!" He grabbed me and teleported again. The new room was similar to the one the woman had been sitting in, but it was clearly not lived in; the furniture had been assembled in a hurry; they didn't match each other in style; and the cleaning had also been done poorly—the cobwebs had not been swept off the walls everywhere.
However, on the table there was an expensive graphics tablet in a store box and a box with an additional set of stylus attachments. There was also a laptop, but judging by the half-erased children's stickers on the case, it was old and weak, bought at some flea market.
The guy said:
"Sorry for hitting you. But I must silence my mother. While she is pregnant with a boy, she needs to participate in the most important ceremonies and rituals, almost like a man. And there her words will be heard, since dragons believe that it is not the woman who speaks but the man in her womb. She saw the slap and almost calmed down. Therefore, she will not ask for help from the families related to the Narriuns."
It sounded like nonsense, but dragons are clearly not the brightest. However, this one specifically seems to have the beginnings of a brain. And I said:
"Do you understand that I don't want to be your wife?"
"I don't want to marry you either. I especially don't need children. So don't be afraid; I won't get into your briefs. You will make the idru-folitvons I need, and you will be free. I will take you to the station in Gilwell and give you money for tickets to any point in Alnorria."
He really isn't stupid. Gilwell is the largest rail and road junction in Aesa. Almost the entire town is one big hotel with rooms of different price categories, and you can easily hide from everyone.
But it's not that simple. There are too many dangerous details for me that this dude wants to keep silent about. And I risked testing the waters:
"Idru-folitvon is a ligature with a more complex pattern than the usual quadristella. The work is expensive; how will you pay?"
"You should pay me for saving you from marrying the exiled dragons. Dave Terrent sold you to them for the elixir of life. If it weren't for me, you'd be one sex slave for four, living in a cage and giving birth every year until you died."
"And these four shared the joy of the purchase with you?" I asked ironically.
"Eleanor Terrent was supposed to be my wife. But she found out who your grandfather wanted to sell her to. Eleanor is incredibly stupid, but she is very good at eavesdropping. And one of her closest servants, not wanting to lose a lucrative, easy job, advised her to get pregnant as soon as possible. Now she is out of marriage access for a year, and a year is a long time. During this time, either the shah or the donkey will die."
I was a little surprised. But not by Eleanor's intrigues or Dave's machinations, but by the fact that my interlocutor knows a fairy tale popular in the Near and Middle East that is little known in Europe. Fatima told it to me.
In short, a cheerful, kind swindler, who has his own name in every country, tricked a greedy Shah (emir, maharajah, sultan, etc.) out of a thousand gold pieces to help the poor under the pretext that in ten years he would teach a donkey to speak better than the shah himself. And to the concern of the poor that the Shah would execute the swindler for such a trick, the said swindler said: "Ten years is a long time. During this time, either the Shah or the donkey will die, and then the Almighty himself will not say which of them spoke better. And while you have money to feed your children during the bad harvest, I have a young thoroughbred donkey for travel. Let us rejoice in the present, but not fear the future."
But the point is not in the fairy tale but in the fact that my interlocutor, who never told me his name, is not telling me much if he is not lying with every word.
"Why does Eleanor need these body movements," I asked, "if she can easily take her share of the property from Dave and go to the US or England? There will be more than enough money for her to spend the rest of her life lounging on the couch, watching TV series during the day, and walking around fashionable brands in nightclubs that are significantly above average in the evening. If Eleanor also files a lawsuit on behalf of her son, she will have enough not only for round-the-clock nannies and a good boarding school but also for excellent security."
"You're talking like a rootless shopkeeper," the guy curled his lips. "If Eleanor takes the money, she won't want for anything for the rest of her days, and she'll even leave something to her grandchildren, but she'll turn from Miss Terrent into a nameless nobody."
"As if you or any other dragon couldn't buy her from Dave next year," I said.
"A noble dragon would never marry a female human, even if she was a princess. It would be a humiliating misalliance. A commoner who doesn't have the magic or money to guard his wife well will steal a simpleton, and a very simple one even by human standards: she has an ultra-religious family and is homeschooled; that is, she is illiterate, unable to live independently in the big world, and accustomed to obedience. The Narriuns have suffered some hardships and have been forced to take human wives for generations. But they were from ancient families. In Aesa, all the old families are connected with dragons. The Narriuns are not the only ones who have known bad times. But I am the only one who is not married. So, thanks to you being here, Eleanor's fate is safe."
"For religious people, a dragon is the spawn of the devil." I didn't believe it.
"What, you don't know the teachings of the Alnorrian Bible Church at all?" The guy was surprised. "Dragons are blessed to protect and guard this island; serving them is an honour for a human."
"The Alnorrian Church is Protestant, so it doesn't have a single structure with one supreme government. There is only a general council of everyone and no one—a very amorphous union. And in every parish of the Alnorrian Church, there are many different sub-churches and movements with their own teachings. Outside of Aesa, no one has ever mentioned dragons anywhere. There are no bad words, no good ones. For most people in Alnorria, dragons are a fairy tale. Or the ravings of madmen. You don't just hide from the world for nothing."
"It doesn't matter," the guy said. "The important thing for you is that I saved you, so you owe me idru-folitvon."
I only owe him a good slap in the face and a lawsuit for kidnapping, but it's unwise to say that out loud. And then there are those four dragons that Dave allegedly sold me to.
"The bathroom is there," the guy said. "I will bring you lunch by one o'clock. Do not try to leave the room. Your tribe can't cast spells, but a female human pregnant with a dragon gains a little magic. My mother will come to check if I have locked you in well. That is why my friend, the one who brought you here, set as many death traps as necessary to calm her down."
"Where's your father?" I asked.
"He died. But before that, he managed to impregnate my mother. And that's why I got a chance for freedom. I'll explain everything to you over lunch."
He left.
And I went to wash myself and think about why this lover of folitvons didn't turn to the hundreds of designers who graduate from Alnorrian universities every year.
Something about all this was wrong. And it for sure stinks.
And how did Violette Blackrocks escape?
https://archiveofourown.org/works/44014216
https://www.fictionpress.com/s/3371534/1/If-you-go-hunting-a-tiger
