Falling. Falling. Falling. Pain.
Then came the screech, long and drawn out it filled his ears with an intolerable tone he couldn’t stop. He heard and saw nothing of the world he was in, but in his mind was clear. He floated in his own slice of a little world, just waiting for his body to wake. Whatever happened to make him like this, it would take a while, he thought.
Finally, his sight and taste returned. What he first thought to be saliva on his palette soon took on a viscous and coppery taste. He willed his jaw to open and spit and it landed with a wet squelch on the stone floor. That’s what he saw first, the floor of a cage. A floor of cut stone set in a pattern usual of a fortified building. A quick prickle on the nape of his neck told him of hay covering this floor. The room he saw was dim and candle lit, four walls, a roof and a floor of quarried and cut stone with an iron door wrought into one of the walls.
In a sudden shiver, he moved his thighs up to his chest and, with weak, shaky motions, slipped his arms around them, knitting his fingers together and holding his legs close. Minutes passed and he willed himself up, struggling onto all fours, head lolling down and he spat again, more blood mixed with the contents of his mouth and he cringed as another wave of pain smothered him from top to bottom. He tried to ignore it, push through it as was the way he was taught, his pain tolerance pushed to just within natural limits by over a decade of training and beatings. He did not succeed and he fell to his side, clutching at his skin where the wave went. He whimpered, but locked that weakness away, turning it into a defiant chuckle that echoed around the room.

At once, the slide of the iron door opened with a reluctant creak of poorly maintained hinges. Through it, stepped a pair of figures clad in blackened leather with cobalt blue cloth adorning the denuded armour. They stood before the Northman and one said to the other,
“Take this’un” he began, “Anyone who can survive a day an’ a night o’ torture ‘as ‘is right ta see tha boss” with a gesture, his fellow nodded, picking up the northman by his arms. Unceremoniously, they dragged him through the corridors of what, the northman assumed, was once a humble fortification. On his journey to wherever, he studied the innards of this place. Finely cut, white stone, almost marble in appearance. Blackened remains of banners and scraps of paper were pinned to or hung from the wall, in harmony with the straight walls and symmetrical nature of the corridors.
Only when another set of doors opened, he came to his conclusion. The doors opened up into a well lit and high ceilinged hall. At either side, pews were rearranged into a circle around the centre of the room. The centre was split into four equal parts, all used for the same thing. He’d heard of such things, men and creatures captured, beaten, starved and then let loose on each other. All for someone’s sick amusement.

He gathered the strength to pick up his head, it was an arduous task, and the effort was punctuated by the popping of his neck at every degree. Before him, was a room-spanning pile of shimmering gold and plunder. Shades of metallic yellow, red, green and many more glinted in the firelight of torches and a grand fireplace to one side. Atop that pile, sat a throne of oak and gold inlays, far too fine for someone of this ilk to have gained fairly.
In the throne, sat the slim and well cut figure of a woman of tanned skin and ebony, shoulder-length hair, grinning and twirling a tiara around her finger, her dress was a dead giveaway; she wore the navy blue and gold filigree of a naval officer, unlikely it was hers. His chauffeurs pulled him to the base of her shiny mountain and brought him to a knee. She turned one of those amber eyes to them and her lips pursed for a moment, she tossed aside the tiara and brought her seated position forward to rest the elbows of those slender arms on her knees and take the measure of her captive.
At her flanks stood a pair of rough and tumble looking louts, one could be no more than 20 and of similar figure and stature to the one in the throne, he stood with good posture and his blue eyes and pale skin had a faint glow to them. The other was akin to a giant, vast in bulk and of immense proportion; he was easily twice the bulk of the northman, the opposite of his fellow, his complexion was tanned and patrician, riddled with scars and a grizzly set of medical staples across his forehead.
“You weren’t too ‘ard on ‘im, were ya?” She spoke in a heavily accented voice, an accent he’d never heard before. Her tone and pacing were enough to tell him that she was, undeniably, in charge.
“Only tha usual beat ‘em up. Though this’un either likes pain or ‘e’s ‘bout as solid as a bloody rock.” She smirked again and stood, advancing down the loose pile of riches with an easy stride and deft agility. She stood before him and her men a moment before pulling up his head with a finger curled under her captive’s stubbled chin.
“What be yer name, blondie? Ansa an’ we might water ya tonigh” She said with a chuckle, prompting a round of laughter from the twenty or so other men in the room. She took a handful of her ‘new friend’s’ dirty blonde hair and yanked it upward, pulling his gunmetal blue eyes to meet with her own amber glare, “Well?” it all suddenly came back to the captive northman, and he spoke,
“Ma’am... my mother always... called me... William” She grinned just hearing those words,
“An’ why you be ‘ere, in my land, Willyum?” this time he grinned,
“Will-E-am... not yum...” He tried to laugh but a stab of pain in his abdomen cut him off and he squirmed,
“Whateva ya name be... d’ya know who ye be lookin’ a’?” he did indeed. Someone he’d been cautioned not to meet. She was a leader of a mob of miscreants and pirates operating near the port towns of the Mainland’s northern regions.
“Captain Barbarossa Rohnan... the Land-Shark. Supposed slayer of the... Fissure Leviathan. Thief. Murderer. Pirate... that’s afraid of water!...” He ignored the twist of pain and laughed. Her face crumpled and in a quick and fluid motion, struck William across the face with strength that defied her wiry limbs. He wasn’t going to stop touching that nerve so easily, “A little unfair... don’t you think? Not only are you... afraid of getting a little damp... you have people pin... me down while you talk big and make bold--“ She struck him again, this time with a boot to his cheek.
“Silence yer’sel. Yer ‘ere cos I’m bored.” She grinned. Will didn’t like that grin. With a whip crack gesture, her two cronies pulled him up to one of the cages and, with a quick push, he was in deep.

He found strength in his legs and stood, shakily, but he was on his feet at least. One of the guards tossed a rusted length of bar into the centre of the ring and Barbarossa laughed, prompting a cheer from her ‘crew’.
“Ye do well wiv yer words, whelp. Let’s see ‘ow well ya ‘andle this nasty!” With a second quick gesture, the portcullis at the far end of the arena ground open. From the opening came a noise somewhere between a growl and a saurian hiss. The creature was of scales, tooth and claw, slinking its way out of its holding on four dextrous legs that ended in hook like claws. The skin of the creature was leathery and ribbed, toting impact marks and blunt cuts along it’s gnarled surface. The head of the beast was arrowhead like in shape and opened up to reveal a wide maw of a mouth, lined with countless serrated teeth and a forked tongue that lapped at the air, picking up William’s scent the moment it entered the arena. It advanced on him slowly and Will prepared, stranding in a ready position, feet spread shoulder-width and back bent. He held the rusting bar like a pole arm and circled the creature like a wolf. Without a word or hiss or roar of warning, the beast stood on its hind legs and leapt at him.