Jason's tail slammed the ground angrily. His wrists were raw and bloody against the rope binding them together, his hair a disheveled mess. There were several infected-looking spots between his blood-red scales, indicating they'd probably been harvested by force. A magical collar was around his neck, preventing him from shapeshifting into a snake and escaping; stuck in his naga form, it was all he could do to act intimidating to defend himself.

Sure, this stranger had killed his captors, but for all he knew, he was headed for another—possibly worse—hell.

"Stay away from me," he hissed, his pointed fangs on display. The venom sacs at their base had long since emptied; his captors had harvested those as well, poking and prodding him with their sharp needles to collect the valuable, deadly drops. Jason was defenseless and he was not a fan of the fact.

He attempted, in vain, to slither away. His strength failed him, and he fell on his side onto the muddy forest floor. His so-called savior approached, and Jason's eyes narrowed. "Don't touch me," he spat.

What an embarrassment, to be on the ground before a two-legs. To be bound and wounded and useless, unable to save himself. He ground his teeth, wishing he could do more than lay here and let himself be caught. Again. It had been bad enough when he and his family—the strongest warriors of their settlement—had all fallen easily to the group of human hunters, as though their decades of experience and their ancestral magic meant nothing in the face of the two-legs' trinkets. Worse when they were sold off like cattle to the highest bidder.

Jason's face burned with anger and shame at the thought of everything that had been done to him over the years. He'd managed to escape, once, only to collapse by a river and be "rescued" by a "kindly" two-legs he'd made the mistake of trusting. A mistake he wouldn't make again.

"You come near me, and I'll kill you," he growled. It didn't matter that he couldn't. Jason would rather die a warrior than continue to live as a coward.