Captivity.

Viggo can count the times he'd been captured on one hand. Three times. It's a near impossible task to imprison the warlord but with all the enemies and rivals he had, it was bound to happen someday.

Viggo glanced through the bars, keeping a watchful eye on the hall. His arms leaned against the steel, cold air biting at his skin, causing a nasty bruise on his left shoulder to sting as he observed routines, searching for weakpoints; easily swayed or clumsy guards, careless routines, faulty doors, prisoners willing to trade food for favors.

The dragonhunter heard you before you entered his vision, staring you down with a dark gaze that held no emotion. The half-relaxed bodylanguage could easily fool you. He saw you hold eye contact before peering past him at his cellmate. When your eyebrows furrowed, the man surpressed a cocky grin, keeping the emotionless facade that covered his face like an invisible mask. "He's alive." Viggo replied without looking back. His cellmate, a man names Boris, had it coming—annoying him despite multiple warnings. So he had dealt with it, slamming the guy's head against the rock wall, causing him to immediately become unconscious. It's been ten minutes and Boris is still laying on the ground.

"But if you don't believe me, you're free to come in and check yourself." A challenging tone guided the nature of his words, fingernails tapping against the bars in a rhythm only known to him, never taking his eyes off of you.