The chains around his wrists and ankles bore at the bare skin, becoming heavier with each step. Not only that, but his eyelids were betraying him, distracting his journey with the need for rest. The guards on his right and left were almost identical, clad completely in iron armor and helmets. They both had a green complexion, filled with bubbling acne. They were without pupils and had grossly yellow teeth that looked as if they'd been sharpened to a point manually. He remembered reading somewhere that Vikings did that to themselves as some freaky way of showing how tough they were or y'know something along those li... Holden shook himself awake, trying to rid the constant ache for sleep. It didn't work, of course, but one of the guards escorting him decided to trade that ache for a burning, sizzling pain.

The guard had scorched the back of Holden's neck with his torch, making his eyes snap open as he screeched, trying to get away. The nameless guard laughed as Holden's feet slipped on the smooth floor. The other guard's foot was placed firmly on the chains connected to Holden's ankles. Holden frowned and looked down as he tugged, watching blood trickle from a newly-opened wound. A bit of the shackles turned from shiny, if worn, iron to a rust-like color as the blood washed over them. 

By this point, the guards had finally stopped their obnoxious snorts and cackles, placing their attention on the prisoner once again. The one who had previously been standing on his chains, Holden now realized was armed with a golden, forked spear. Spear Guy kicked his shackle and poked Holden with his spear, barking in some unknown language. Holden furrowed his eyebrows at the strange gurgling in the man's voice, an odd dialect indeed. However, the ordeal was universal for "get off your ass and walk," so he did as he was so clearly instructed, and proceeded to get off his ass and walk. He continued walking as the exhaustion fell away from his body. The sizzling pain of the burn was still lingering, and Holden couldn't possibly ignore it. The pain was a needy toddler, begging for attention. You know, if toddlers stabbed you multiple times for no reason whatsoever. Though the exhaustion had faded from his body itself, his face was practically a blinking red snooze button, screaming "10 more minutes". He saw a crystal-clear mirrored door glint in his peripheral vision, and dragged his chin from his chest to see himself.

His hair was an absolute mess, which was pretty annoying. Holden's arms twitched as he instinctively reached up to fix it, but his restraints did their job, keeping his arms from moving an inch from where they rested, hands balled up next to each thigh. His ears, two stacked upon each other on each side, peeking out of his long and tousled hair. Well, "tousled" isn't the best word to describe it. It really wasn't even a hot mess, just a mess in general. Usually a deep emerald green and shining, it clumped and stuck in every which way, greasy beyond belief. The three ears on each side of his head were hardly visible beneath the mass that was Holden's hair. They twitched, desperately hoping to find any sound other than footsteps and the dragging of chains on slick floor. Moving to his eyes, he wrinkled his nose in disgust. He had one blue eye and one emerald green to match his hair, and they always shone like diamonds (or emeralds, of course). Well, not today, they didn't. His irises had dulled, a gross comparison to his usual looks. The bags underneath were almost as disturbing. His olive skin had tinted to a dark, dark color that wasn't close to the deepest shadow on his body. How could this have happened in a matter of weeks? His lips were dry, cracked, and split. Not only were they split from his own biting, but from the regular beatings of the creepily abusive and disciplinary guards who lined the outside of his cell. A yellow bruise rimmed in purple colored his cheekbone. His cheeks themselves seemed to have collapsed onto each other. Holden had turned pale and sickly from the lack of nutritious food and sunlight. The corner of his lip curled at the sight of the devastating state of his face. He was conceited, he knew, but still, how could you be modest when you were this handsome devil?

The omnipresent crook in his neck worsened, and he remembered they were still moving, his eyes snapping back to the anything-but-aesthetic guards.

I'll continue this later, right now I've got to go! Hope you like what I have so far!