A/N: If you review, please help me come up with a better title.
Trapped. She hated being trapped. Trapped meant no flying. Trapped meant no fire. Trapped meant no food. The last thing she remembered before waking up here was checking on her precious hoard, when that annoying pink little pest that had been following her for days jumped very suddenly in front of her, and before she could wreak flame onto its ridiculously penetrable skin, he thrust that miserable little stick into her face and everything went dark. Hopefully, the eggs would be safe. The eggs! What a dire situation they were in now that they were unguarded! She roared in calling, hopefully her current mate would return to her nest to check the eggs. She waited for what seemed like a moon cycle, but no acknowledging roar greeted her ears. What an abjectplace she was in now! Her eggs might as well be smashed already, as some vile creature would eventually snatch them, and her mate had either lost faith, or she had been taken so far away, no one in her pack would be able to help her. How horrible it was she was trapped in this awful little box. When she escaped, she would make sure to hunt down her captors, kill them slowly and painfully, (She was usually an instant-gratification death-by-fire type, but she was so angry now there seemed to be no other alternative.), and raze their pathetic little dwellings as she had countless times before. Their screams would serenade her ears, and she would watch them languish with glee as she took revenge. Well, she mused, no time like the present. Heightening her sense of smell and concentrating, the Horntail deducted that the awful box was made of tree, obviously pest-crafted. She inhaled, preparing for a mighty roar, arched her tail, and swung it, shredding the flimsy tree and allowing her to stand up. She was ready to preform a succulent and satisfying reprisal for what the pests had done. She found out quickly she was chained down; three other boxes she could tell contained dragons chained in front of her. Then, she looked down and almost snorted. There was a large group of scruffy-looking pests running around and screaming, obviously surprised by her sudden self-release. Then, as if she had begun a chain reaction, the other dragons began to attempt to burst out as she had, and suddenly the pests had four angry dragons to deal with. Most of them she had never seen, and two were roaring at each other in the same dialect and the long, snaky red one was attempting to char the pests. But, the sticks that had subdued her and the other dragons evenly matched devised a shield around the pests and the only thing the other dragon succeeded in was sending the group into an amusing turmoil. After a few more minutes of this hilarity, the pests got together and pointed their sticks. Uh-oh. She shut her eyes tight, maybe it would protect her. No such luck. A splitting pain struck her right between the eyes, and she cursed those troublesome sticks as a black shroud fell over her vision once again.
When the darkness finally cleared, the Chinese Fireball was greeted with another headache, more annoying than its predecessor. Those stupid sticks really needed to be obliterated. The fleshsticks flagrantly abused their power, as she had seen many times while watching their activity during slow days. A sudden chilly breeze tickled her snout, and she was forced to open her eyes blearily to investigate. The cramped box had some how gotten bigger and breezier, she realized as the sleepy fuzz vacated her head. Wait, there was no box! She was free! Free! She could finally seek revenge for the atrocities- Ugh. No such luck. A metal fence now surrounded her. Out of the steam-heat, she mused, and into the fire. At least the box could have been burnt as a last resort. The landscape in front of her was mostly rocky, and it smelled sharply of other dragons. When the Fireball realized this, smoke inadvertently plumed out of her nostrils. They were on HER territory! (Well, she had yet to claim it, but it was practically hers. She could totally beat up that Swedish Short-Snout if she felt like it.) She growled at the thought of the lush-scaled wimp. She had met a few, and they only ate sheep! Sheep, the easiest prey around! What about the thrill of the chase, especially if the meal attempted to make off with your eggs! The eggs! The Fireball had been so busy thinking about sheep she had forgotten to worry about her eggs! They were unguarded, and many creatures prowled the wood. If only… wait! A small nest she had overlooked was now coming into sight nearby! For a second she thought it may have belonged to a manticore, but the eggs differed. They were tinged ashwinder red, like her eggs! They must have been hers, they even smelled of her! For an instant, the Fireball wondered if this was a trick the fleshsticks’ awful sticks had played, but she waved it away. They had to be her eggs. She sat down contentedly, knowing if she could build up enough firepower that she could manipulate the fence and create a plan of escape. It would be difficult, but- she then realized the fence had just vanished, and a loud buzzing noise blared. She let out a triumphant roar, and was about to make her way to her precious eggs when she saw the fleshstick near a large crag. A deep growl began in her throat. Those miserable creatures were more trouble then they were worth. Just for a little satisfaction, she decided to burn it to a crisp. She flapped her wings, and within seconds she was feeling the mild pain that came with powerful fire and was about to open her mouth when the fleshstick yelled something in gibberish, pointed his stick, and something cold began to spread from her right eye. As soon as it hit her other eye, pain sharper than her own talons exploded into her body. The next few minutes were a hellish blur. She could barely feel anything, and after a while felt herself collapse in pain and exhaustion. She had probably been running around. She experienced a slimy feeing, like broken eggs, and faintly entertained the notion of having fallen on her own eggs. She didn’t care, though. She just hoped that when she once again awoke, she would be home. If that were not the case, then she would have to preform some serious blasting and clawing until this place became home or home became this place. The serenity finally took the ache away, and the Fireball drifted off to sleep.
No dragons were harmed in the making of this piece.
The Dragon Task Force of the British Ministry safely returned all dragons to their territories, so Maizoology activists would not sue them.