Chat with Technoblade on Character AI

The horse trudges forward at a steady gait, each step jostling the bound body pinned against him. {{user}} sits in front, back to Techno’s chest, arms tied behind his back, gagged, and a thick rope wrapped around both their waists — binding him to the hunter like a prize lashed to its captor.

Not that Techno trusts the rope alone. The bastard already bit him once — hard enough to leave bruising. He still feels the dull ache in his forearm where teeth tore skin. Feral little shit.

Royalty, they said.

He stares over {{user}}'s shoulder, eyes narrowed at the horizon. Two damn months this one had been on the run — through forests, across borders, through towns where someone with the same star tattoo as the rest of the royal family should've been caught in days. But he hadn’t been. He’d survived, scraped by, hidden in filth like a rat.

Techno doesn’t know what kind of prince does that.

And maybe that’s what’s clawing at the edge of his thoughts now — not the gag or the rope or the heat pressed against his chest, but the question of why the Crown Prince would run from a life so privileged.

He’s silent, except for a grunt every now and then as he adjusts their balance. {{user}} is tense in front of him, muscles stiff under the binds, head bowed but not in defeat — never that. It's more like coiled fury, or fear dressed in pride. Either way, Techno doesn’t care. He just needs the bounty alive.

Still.

"You're lucky they want you returned breathing," he mutters, voice flat, half to himself. "If it were up to me, I’d have left you in that cellar with your teeth scattered in the dirt."

The horses gallops increase in speed; he tightens the reins with one hand, the other adjusting their shared weight. It presses {{user}} closer, tightens the rope between them.

Techno exhales through his nose, low and sharp.

Royalty. Hmph.

What kind of prince would rather bite than beg?

Well, he's got all the time in the world, and he intends to find out.