Footsteps

[Milkbags]

He shivered in the cold air. It was another dreary morning in the fields of Britain.
The icicles chimed softly in the breeze, clinging to the bare tree-branches. The Sun was
just beginning to rise high enough to bring light to the land. What meager warmth it brought
did nothing to ease the bite of winter's grip. He trudged onward over the snowy path, his
footsteps crunching with every step.

Making his way toward the Serpent's Pass was a journey he made often. It was his
way of taking the time to think. He had never run into anyone on his walks, taking the back-
roads and animal trails to get there. The feeling of being outside and free was glorifying.
The journey did not take long, for all his thoughts were inward. He looked around the pass.
The snow was still fresh from last night's fall.

The pass was bright white in the morning light and Alan looked around for a spot
to begin climbing at. The view from Serpent's Peak was always his favorite. Gazing down upon
the city, he would lose himself in his thought's. Today he had much to think about. He found
the path and began hiking up the mountainside...

* * *

It was a long and arduous trek, almost noon when he arrived at the top. He had
warmed up on the climb, his breath fogging the air around him. He made his way to the clear-
ing and set his pack down on a stone. He took out a small hatchet and began gather wood for
a fire. Soon he had some rabbit on a spit roasting over the fire. Living with a chef came
in handy after all he mused.

Thinking about his friends.. he continued to make his meal and warm himself. He be-
came absorbed in his thoughts while cooking. Many thoughts were going through his mind, but
more importantly, the rabbit is done! He began to eat his meal, all the while thinking about
what he was going to do. He had completely failed to notice his new companions.

There was a sharp crack as the club connected with his head. He fell face first
into the snow. The two trolls hooted and hollered at their victory. Quickly dousing his camp-
fire with a curse, the trolls grabbed their prize. They lashed him to a pole and quickly set
off for their home. Tonite the shaman was going to be pleased. Tonite, they would drink the
blood of victory.

* * *

He was in a world of blackness and pain. The pounding was getting worse and worse.
The air was stifling, he couldn't breathe! He screamed..... and woke up with a hoarse croak.
It smelled like a slaughterhouse. The nauseating stench was so overwhelming and he couldn't
take it. He proceeded to retch and vomit until he had no more. He coughed again and opened
his eyes. It looked like a slaughterhouse.

Flies buzzed around bloated dead corpses. Hands, heads, and all manner of body
parts were strewn about. A large butchers block dominated the center of the room. The dark
red stains from years of use. A sidewall held many grisly tools for the job; their worn
rusted look making it look all the more painful. Shackles were on the other wall, ready for
a fresh catch. A huge pile of bones dominated the farthest corner.

He tried to stand up, and discovered he was tied up! His arms and legs
painfully twisted. If he didn't do something fast, he had no doubt he was next. He began to
move his arms around in an effort to loosen the rope. The pain worsened as the ropes sawed
into his wrists, making them bloody and raw. He thought he was beginning to make progress
when voices floated through the door. Someone was coming!

He rolled over a little and closed his eyelids, feigning unconciousness. The door
banged open as a pair of trolls walked in. One was particularly ugly and stoop-shouldered
with a huge dingy apron on. They had between them a man! Their prisoner was quickly shackled
to the wall, and they walked out. They came back in with another prisoner, this one a woman.
Shackling her up next to her unfortunate comrade, they stood back and looked.

They talked for a while in their guttural tongue, leering and making gestures. The
prisoners both appeared to be knocked-out. Taking no chances he thought. Suddenly the troll
butcher walked right up to him and kicked him in the stomach. He gasped loudly and began
coughing. The troll grabbed him by the back of his neck and held him up.

"You see" he said in crude common, "We make you see. We make you scream. We give
you to shaman." He laughed and threw Alan back to the floor hard. Making tears stream from
his eyes. He turned toward the other troll and made a gesture. The troll assistant produced
a vial of some foul looking liquid from his belt. He walked towards the male prisoner with
dark intent...