Darkness, wetness and weight. Were there air to breathe Foster would be hyperventilating. He had no earthly clue what happened, one moment he was trying not to scream at an incredibly loud party, the next everything went screwballs as something had. Had... what had that been? Something had grabbed him and used him as a puppet.
His lungs were starting to burn and he pushed against the confines of his prison. It was like being wrapped up in wet silk and sealed in a coffin. Something gave way and fresh air poured in. He gratefully gulped in the air, trying to reorient himself and stay calm. All he knew at this point was that he was locked up somewhere, so numb he could barely feel a thing and in utter darkness.
He pushed against the far wall where it was dry, praying that he wouldn't let water in or anything. His only chance to survive lay in getting fresh air while he still had strength to get it. He felt the wall give way ever so slightly, and doubled his efforts.
He was rewarded with his arms punching through the surprisingly thin wall entirely and clawing uselessly at the air. He craned his neck forward a bit to get some more fresh air. It took him a few breaths to realize that his neck had stretched forward considerably without any other part of his body moving.
Decided that yes, he needed both out of this thing and questions answered Foster started to push his arms to the side while using his head to push against the wall even further. All at once it all gives way and he flops out of his prison with all the grace of a drunken cow.
"Oww..." he muttered into the cold stone he had flopped onto. "Wait... what the hell?" he asked looking out and spotting a huge group of people all dressed up in fruity red and orange robes. Strong arms grabbed him from behind and slammed him onto the cold stone. The arms belonged to a burly cultist was apparently not the only one of this gang that worked out as three more quickly grabbed his other arm and each leg.
In short order he was strapped down on the alter by chains and introduced to his new limbs when they too were tied down. "What the hell!?" he shouted in shock, his voice had become childish and trembling. "Who are you people!? What do you want?" he demanded as his head and neck were chained down as well.
Any further questions died in his throat as he realized two things. First was that the roof of this place was polished obsidian with a mirror like shine. Second, he was a dragon. A red dragon with bits of eggshell still stuck to him.
"You, are one lucky little dragon." a hissing voice announced causing Foster to glance over. It was all he could do so restrained. He saw another cultist, in much fancier robes and holding a brutal looking knife made of what looked like a massive fang. "You see, your mother sold you for twice your weight in gold. So now you get to be part of my ascension."
"Ascension? What have you been drinking you crazy bastard?" Foster demanded, a sense of fury bubbling up. This... this nothing. This shit had the sheer burning gall to...
The cultist backhanded him with enough force to daze him. "As I was saying, you get to be part of my ascension. I am going to kill you, and use your pathetic, wasted life force to enhance my own. Then, instead of becoming a meager Lich or perhaps Archlich, I instead get to become a Dracolich come the next new moon." the cult leader explained to Foster's growing fury.
He wasn't scared. He wasn't panicking. He was pissed. He was furious! He saw only red and imagined only the bastard's helpless screaming. Huffing and thrashing against his bindings Foster opened his mouth to roar at the impertinent fool. Fire leapt from his jaws and covered the maniac. But instead of screaming he laughed, high and cruel.
"Nice try wyrmling. But did you really think I'd be unprotected? That I would be so stupid as to not have defense against dragonfire?" The leader asked with a cruel smile.
"Well with that gown of yours you do look that stupid." Foster immediately returned, the breathing of the fire had left a slight feeling of loss in him.
"Idiot Beast." The cult leader snarled.
"Bite me." Foster sent, getting a nasty grin from the robed man.
"Oh no, I'd rather stab you." he calmly remarked raising his knife hand high. He began to chant in a strange language as Foster thought as hard as he could to find some kind of solution, anything that would get him out of this.
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(Posted Fri, 31 Oct 2014 15:39)
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