As soon as Jeff had uttered the word 'MANSON', the ring around Richie's neck felt as though it had turned to lava and was burning its way through her pale flesh. So much so, that she couldn't help but look down to make sure that wasn't the case... and it wasn't, so she tried her best to ignore the strange feeling, but that wasn't the only one she was having. Currently, her skin felt as though it were crawling and her legs seemed a little weak. Strangely, that word conjured up images of Peter, but she wasn't sure why. Something just out of reach in her mind constantly slipped away as she tried to grab hold of it, wriggling and squirming, both wanting to be noticed and to conceal itself. In the end she gave up the chase, but it continued to nag at her and would do so for many hours to come.
"Oh Jeff," said Attitude, barely holding it together, "that's not what you told me."
"I know," replied Jeff. "Sorry."
Rubbing her eyes, barely containing tears, Attitude, or Lynn as they now knew her to be, said,
"I've got to go. I'll give you a call later."
"Okay," whispered Jeff. "Is everything alright?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'll call you later. Bye."
Lynn cancelled the call and handed the phone back to Richie, all the time not able to look her in the eye.
"I'm sorry," she said as she did so.
"Not good enough," piped up Tina, once again grabbing her arm.
Richie stepped in.
"Just leave it. It's not worth it."
"You don't want to press charges?"
"No," stated Richie, deflated. "All I want is a shower, and to forget all about today."
And with that, it was all over. Well nearly. The Avengers told Attitude in no uncertain terms that she would never play for them again, that she would have to find her own way back to Somerset, and then threw all her stuff out of the changing room. The disgraced lacrosse player was last seen walking into town, still dressed in her kit, looking very sad and lonely indeed.
Both teams made their way to the local pub to join up with the other teams that had played that afternoon, where refreshments and food had been put on. It had been an extraordinary day, and Richie was just looking forward to hooking up with her friends Peter, Tank and Flash.
41
Shake, Rattle And... Roll
Somehow it seemed quieter than usual, something that given the prisoners' unchanging circumstances was unlikely at best, impossibly bad at worst. Inadequate lighting flickered, hissed and spluttered as the fast flowing, ice cold stream gurgled, guzzled, groaned and grumbled. Something extraordinary seemed to radiate from it.
And then there was the old dragon. Which one? The one punished the most by this harsh environment, if that were at all possible, the one transfixed in his natural form... Bag O' Bones!
Despite the freezer-like prison having an air of being quieter, the old dragon's wheezing, spluttering, moaning and hacking cough had grown worse over the last week or so. Even though there was no visible way to track the passage of time, Fredric had always been able to ascertain the passing of minutes, hours and weeks with astonishing accuracy, even without his dragon magic. By his estimate it had been eleven days, six hours and about forty minutes since that lowlife jailer had last appeared, inflicting devastating beatings on both dragons, while leaving the naga king to watch in silence. A little over three days later, Bag O' Bones, as both Fredric and the naga king had come to think of him, had started to sound much, much worse. Gradual at first, now the noises he made almost seemed too much for any one being to bear. Fredric glanced over to his fellow prisoner. For some time now he'd thought of them as comrades in arms, despite their clear differences and beliefs, bringing to mind that old dragon saying, 'My enemy's enemy is my friend.' Just as he did so, the naga king imperceptibly nodded back, a movement so small that unless you knew what to look for, you wouldn't have noticed a thing.
It had been more than sixteen hours or so since their last telepathic communication, in which both had expressed their concern about not only the odd feeling of emptiness and change around the icy hellhole, but about the deteriorating condition of the suffering, ancient dragon guard nearby. Contact between both prisoners had grown a little more frequent, with short bursts preferred to longer periods of fruitless trying. A few important words or a well thought out question seemed to work much better than what had been going on before. Each of them worked out what they wanted to say, long before the toll taking exchanges took place, leading to things being smoother and quicker, as well as them being able to 'exchange' more often. Fredric found it somewhat frustrating, mostly because there was so much that he wanted to ask. The only thing he'd learnt so far that he considered of any real value, regarded the chains that bound the three of them in place. Supposedly they were unbreakable, and were able to constrain and retain both magical and physical powers to one degree or another. According to the naga king, no being in his race's history had ever escaped from them. Fredric was, he considered, ever the optimist, but this information hit him hard. Always assuming that eventually he'd break free, given enough time and provided he wasn't murdered by one of his captors before the opportunity presented itself, for the naga king to reveal this meant real trouble and sapped the life, and some of the hope, from him. Over the past few hours he'd considered all possibilities, almost recovered as he was from the jailer's beating. The only smidgen of hope that he'd come up with was that if the chains weren't too long, just maybe he could reach what they were attached to, release them, free the naga king and make their escape with them still on. In fact, before now he'd tried to dig his way into the solid wall of ice surrounding them, and had received many beatings just for his token efforts. But that was when the jailer frequented their prison far more often. Perhaps now, given the infrequency of the visits, any of which might be the last, it was worth making another attempt. He vowed to ask the naga king his opinion the next time they communicated.
A noticeable vibration throughout the entire icy cavern shook him out of his reverie. Bag O' Bones was shaking violently, the tiny scarps of skin hanging from his broken wings flapping around furiously. It far exceeded any of the normal (if that's what they could be called) bouts of shivering, which they all suffered from at some point. This was something different. And all he could do was watch helplessly.
Starting to flail about, the ancient dragon's talons, hands and head all waved around as if he were suffering from some kind of fit. And then he did... but of the coughing kind. It sounded disgusting, Fredric thought as he watched and listened. Abruptly it ended with a disturbing sound, just like that of a baby's rattle. More troubled than Fredric had ever seen him, the naga king looked over. Both turned back towards Bag O' Bones. Silence had overtaken him... FOREVER! With one final shudder, the tortured, ancient being toppled onto one side, rolled as far as the length of chain restraining him would allow, and was fortunate enough, finally, to leave the pain and sorrow of this unforgiving hellhole. Fredric promised himself he would remember, and that the dragon's pain and everything he'd gone through would someday count for something.
42
Lost Puppy Looking For A Lead
Perched on a high bar stool, nursing a cool diet Pepsi that reminded her of him, loneliness threatened to consume Janice, despite the crowded nature of the very popular pub. Having had no joy at finding Peter during all of the sports matches, she had reluctantly tagged along to the after match drinks and food that had been laid on at one of the nearest pubs. It wasn't odd for her to be there, at least she didn't think so; after all, she knew almost all the sports men and women, even if it was just to say hello to. Besides, most of the other bar workers from the sports club were there, as well as the manager himself. So it wasn't odd in any way, shape or form. What was peculiar though, was that Tank had still failed to turn up. It was practically the talk of the rugby section. From what she could gather from one of the very friendly rugby players (Hook, his name was, if she remembered correctly) the second XI had lost to the first, albeit by quite a narrow margin. The talk was that if Tank had been there, he would have been the difference between victory and defeat. His team were most disappointed, and more than a little concerned for his out of character no show.