<div style="padding: 3px; background-color: #FFFFFF; border: 1px solid #d8d8d8; font-size: 1em;"><div style="text-transform: uppercase; border-bottom: 1px solid #CCCCCC; margin-bottom: 3px; font-size: 0.8em; font-weight: bold; display: block;"><span onclick="if (this.parentNode.parentNode.getElementsByTagName('div')[1].getElementsByTagName('div')[0].style.display != '') {  this.parentNode.parentNode.getElementsByTagName('div')[1].getElementsByTagName('div')[0].style.display = ''; this.innerHTML = '&lt;b&gt;Spoiler: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;a href=\'#\' onClick=\'return false;\'&gt;hide&lt;/a&gt;'; } else { this.parentNode.parentNode.getElementsByTagName('div')[1].getElementsByTagName('div')[0].style.display = 'none'; this.innerHTML = '&lt;b&gt;Spoiler: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;a href=\'#\' onClick=\'return false;\'&gt;show&lt;/a&gt;'; }"><b>Spoiler: </b><a href="#" onclick="return false;">show</a></span></div><div class="quotecontent"><div style="display: none;">Wow...got a little carried away with this one. It's nearly a short story, or something, possibly tl;dr territory for some of you. Since it's not directly related to the plotline of the PCs, it's not really required reading. But it's a window into the fates of NPCs, and how things happen in Armel, so if you're interested check it out! :3</div></div></div><br/><br/><div style="padding: 3px; background-color: #FFFFFF; border: 1px solid #d8d8d8; font-size: 1em;"><div style="text-transform: uppercase; border-bottom: 1px solid #CCCCCC; margin-bottom: 3px; font-size: 0.8em; font-weight: bold; display: block;"><span onclick="if (this.parentNode.parentNode.getElementsByTagName('div')[1].getElementsByTagName('div')[0].style.display != '') {  this.parentNode.parentNode.getElementsByTagName('div')[1].getElementsByTagName('div')[0].style.display = ''; this.innerHTML = '&lt;b&gt;Spoiler: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;a href=\'#\' onClick=\'return false;\'&gt;hide&lt;/a&gt;'; } else { this.parentNode.parentNode.getElementsByTagName('div')[1].getElementsByTagName('div')[0].style.display = 'none'; this.innerHTML = '&lt;b&gt;Spoiler: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;a href=\'#\' onClick=\'return false;\'&gt;show&lt;/a&gt;'; }"><b>Spoiler: </b><a href="#" onclick="return false;">show</a></span></div><div class="quotecontent"><div style="display: none;"><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="text-decoration: underline"><span style="font-size: 120%; line-height: 116%;">&lt;&lt;Elsewhere in Armel, a few days earlier&gt;&gt;</span></span></span><br/><br/>"Rise and shine little ones!" warbles Tunello. "Hope you're all well rested."<br/>The door opens, spilling light into the room.<br/>"It's your big day! Oh, you must be terribly excited!"<br/><br/>Chicoa glares towards the speaker, eyes narrow as slivers. The squirrefolk did not sleep well last night. He barely slept at all.<br/>"Yeah, man." he mutters sharply. "<span style="font-style: italic">Ecstatic</span>. Just <span style="font-style: italic">bursting</span> with soddin' excitement."<br/><br/>The other three squirrels stir from their troubled sleep.<br/>A confused "...unh?" is all Lyee can manage. Groggily she looks at Tunello, who stand as a silhouette of shadow against the light.<br/>Namhib and Richoa are the last to rise from the dingy mat. They glare at their captor and say nothing.<br/><br/>The morphic salamander tugs the lanyard from his pocket and fishes about for the right key.<br/>"Just think, m'friends: after today, no more of this room for you." he smiles his wide, lip-less smile. "You'll all be citizens. Free to go wherever you like!"<br/>He finds the key and moves to unfasten the squirrels from the floor.<br/><br/><br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Freedom.</span> Though Chicoa is loath to admit it, the idea does excite him. It's been over a week since the sack of Talloak, his home. Since then he and his comrades have known only bondage: first, as inventory in Fort Armel's general stockyard...shivering in the rags that were their only remaining possessions...watching fellow prisoners disappear one by one as predatory shoppers would browse through and make their selections. Those had been difficult days. Sometimes a buyer would even eat his or her purchase immediately, right there in the yard with the rest of the slaves watching powerlessly...<span style="font-style: italic">plunging down the gullet, settling heavily into a round and still-squirming belly</span>...the memories haunt him whenever his eyes close.<br/>Soon enough it had been Chicoa's turn to be purchased. The buyer, Tunello, did not eat him immediately, but brought him home to this dark room and its sturdy chains. In a sense, it was an improvement. The salamander was no sadist; he fed his slaves well, seemed to have little interest in them as food. But nevertheless the time in this room had been an exercise in teeth-grinding despair: no hope of escaping, no way of knowing how the remainder of the Talloak captives were faring or even how many were still alive. And no clue of how much longer he himself would be staying out of a belly.<br/>Chicoa's only consolation, the only lifeline keeping him from true despair, was that he was never alone. Tunello had purchased Richoa and Lyee along with him, and Namhib the next day. The four squirrels have at least been able to huddle together and do what they could to keep each other's spirits up...<br/><br/>Freedom. The salamander had been hinting at it for days. <span style="font-style: italic">"You won't be wearing chains much longer"</span> he would say in an encouraging tone, speaking as if a friend. But Chicoa knew better than to feel comforted. Friendly or not, Tunello was a cold-hearted slaver. And undoubtedly a liar.<br/>Whenever, in the long hours of darkness, the others' whispered conversations turned hopeful, Chicoa's fatalistic reply was always the same. <span style="font-style: italic">"The only day these collars are coming off is the day we become food."</span><br/><br/><br/><br/>And now...that day has come.<br/><br/>Tunello pockets the lanyard and leads his rodent slaves--still chained by together by their collars--out through the doorway. The main room is generously sunlit by wide windows, allowing the four to see each other clearly for the first time in days. They are a miserable bunch to look at. Unwashed, unrested, their tails clumped like old brushes.Chicoa scans the room alertly: no one else present. So, the bastard is going to eat all four of them himself?<br/><br/>Apparently not. Instead Tunello crosses the room and, mumbling excitedly, ladles out stew from a pot over the fire. With the salamander's back turned Chicoa instinctively searches about for a weapon or an escape route. No luck. Tunello is not so careless as to leave a knife lying in reach. And the single exit door is closed, most likely locked, while the windows are barred with iron. But even if the door had been wide open, and even if they could evade their captor's harpoon tongue, any escape attempt still would have been a short sprint to a certain death. After all, the sight of four wretched looking rodents chained collar-to-collar broadcasts "Escaped Slaves!" to any half-awake onlooker. And in Fort Armel, a town run by and for slavers, there is no sanctuary.<br/><br/>"Eat up!" Tunello commands, placing four bowls onto the table. He notices Chicoa looking at the door, and grins.<br/>"Soon enough, m'friend. You'll be free soon enough. But first things first. You need to keep up your strength!"<br/><br/>The squirrels have no appetite. But at their owner's (and bodys') insistence they force themselves to eat.<br/><br/>The stew tastes decent, and familiar. Understandable, as most of the ingredients came from plundered Talloak stores.<br/><br/>Namhib eats the slowest. When she finishes, she looks up to find the others blinking awkwardly. Tunello is seated on the far side of the room, distractedly rubbing his black-and-yellow skin with a wet sponge.<br/><br/>Chicoa meets the gaze of the older male, Richoa. Unspoken words pass between them, until at last Chicoa breaks the silence. "So <span style="font-style: italic">what's</span> the soddin' catch here?" he demands bluntly.<br/><br/>"Hmm?" replies the salamander.<br/><br/>"You're not...you're not going to just set us free." says Lyee.<br/><br/>"I do not know how much you paid for us," adds Richoa. "But I know we were not free. You purchased us with gold, fed and housed us at your expense. You would not do that unless there were something to gain."<br/><br/>Tunello puts down the sponge. "Oh? Couldn't it just be that I'm a nice, Pact-abiding guy? Saw you poor things in the stockyard and wanted to liberate you?"<br/><br/>"Were that true," mutters Richoa. "you would have done it the day you bought us. You would not have kept us locked up."<br/><br/>"Yeah..." Tunello chuckles. "You got my number. I ain't doing this for karma."<br/>He stands to his full height--twice that of the squirrelfolk--and approaches the four, eyes agleam.<br/>"I'll level with you. The 'catch', m'friends, is that if your freedom will not be free."<br/><br/>"We...don't have anything to give." says Lyee. "It's all been taken already."<br/><br/>"Oh not true! Not true!" says Tunello. "You've still got your bodies."<br/><br/>The two females cringe slightly, fearing what this might imply. There are certain mysteries of amphibian anatomy that they are not eager to explore.<br/><br/>"..." Chicoa tenses, his fur bristling. His paws curls into small fists. He might go down in the end, but he's not going to make this easy...<br/><br/>Tunello laughs heartily, a lilting soprano. "--and, my! Such spirit! No one has taken that fire from your hearts!"<br/>"Little ones...calm down. I'm not going to hurt you. When I say that you will soon be free, I do mean it."<br/><br/>"Then what is your price?" asks Namhib.<br/><br/>"You're going to fight in the arena for me." says Tunello. "An endurance match against a big pred."<br/>"All you must do is survive for a single round, little over a minute. That's it. Do this, and you'll have paid for your freedom three times over!"<br/><br/>A fight? This Chicoa wasn't expecting. He has not held a weapon since the fight to defend Talloak, where he was knocked out cold by a giant's boulder and awoke to find himself collared.<br/>How many times over the week of his captivity had he yearned to once again grip a solid bit of steel in his paws--to have a moment alone with the salamander... <span style="font-style: italic">"I'd make him wish he never crawled out of the swamp."</span><br/><br/>"It's all about appearances y'see." Tunello continues when the others do not respond. "The payoff is based on odds, and the odds are set based on the impression the gladiator gives."<br/>"So far, most of the rodents tossed into the arena have been civilians, barely able to hold a spear steady. They weren't 'fighters' so much as 'meals with legs'."<br/><br/>The four squirrels tense at these words, especially at how carelessly they are spoken. They can scarcely imagine the horror their brethren have been facing out there in the slavers' cruel games.<br/>Short-tempered Chicoa tenses with rage again. He would surely be leaping onto the salamander and throttling him were the chain long enough.<br/><br/>"By all appearances, you four are the same. Helpless fuzzballs...nothing but stomach fodder." Tunello tilts his head, peers down at his slaves with his dark and pupilless eye.<br/>"No one would suspect from looking at you...that you are deadly skirmishers."<br/><br/>"Hmph." says Richoa.<br/>"Er..." says Lyee.<br/>Chicoa and Namhib say nothing. The pieces are starting to fit together. Whatever his other shortcomings, the salamander is not clueless; he has clearly done his homework about them. Their identities as members of Talloak's elite militia squadron are no doubt what originally caught his eye back in the stockyard.<br/><br/>"Here's how it'll go down m'friends." says Tunello. He crosses to a heavy chest, unlocks it, and retrieves a raw-hide sack.<br/>"I submit you to a match without giving any hint of your identity. The brokers take one look at you, post long odds, like 20-1, that you get gulped. Then I'll discretely place a large bet on you surviving."<br/>He tosses down the sack for emphasis.<br/><span style="font-weight: bold">*clink-k-k*</span><br/>Empty bowls rattle under the impact of several pounds of precious metal coinage hitting the table.<br/><br/>"--and we survive." says Richoa. "Making you rich."<br/><br/>"Yes!" says Tunello gleefully. "And in return, you all go free. A fair deal, I'd say."<br/><br/><br/>~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~<br/><br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">"Some soddin 'fair deal' this is."</span><br/><br/>An hour later: Chicoa and the others are walking single-file through the central plaza towards the arena.<br/>Tunello follows behind with smile on his face and a firm grip on their chain-leash, looking like nothing so much as a guy just out for an afternoon stroll with his four pets.<br/><br/>He had warned his slaves to 'stay in character' and not reveal themselves as anything more than they appeared. It was not a difficult order to follow. Dejection, embarrassment, and gut-wrenching nervousness come naturally to anyone forced into these circumstances, elite skirmishers or not. To be another person's property, to fight--and potentially die--just to amuse and enrich one's owner...it is a mockery of everything their Pact upbringings taught them to believe in.<br/><br/>They are not alone in their plight. Every part of Armel they pass through, on each street and in front of each shop and kiosk, similar scenes play out. Slaves of all species (distinguished by their disheveled appearance and prominent metal collars) are being bought, sold, ordered, abused, and--horror--in some cases publically devoured. Surprisingly, the owners are also of every shape and size; Chicoa spots an elf leading another elf, and in one alleyway even witnesses a female halfling beating a seven-foot troll with a truncheon (?! how this works Chicoa cannot fathom).<br/><br/>They arrive at last at the entrance: a grand stone archway constructed like the rest of the arena from seamless stone that bears no mortar or marks of chiseling. If Chicoa didn't know better (from his previous visits to Armel long before it was a den of evil, when this area was an open garden) he would have guessed the arena was carved from an outcropping of natural stone.<br/><br/>The entrance arch and the lobby beyond buzz with activity: free participants looking for action, less-than-free participants with their handlers, vendors (of tickets, bet-slips, and 'refreshments') all mill about the hot and noisy space, along with a multitude of spectators and loiterers. To either side flights of stone stairs leads upwards to seating areas overlooking the arena pit itself. In the back, other flights lead down into dim catacombs.<br/><br/>The squirrels' prey instincts pop like fireworks. The air here is thick with the smell of felids, canids, hyenas, badgers, and other large rodentivorous mammals. Predatory birds too: Chicoa spots a owl, an eagle, and a very large morphic gryphon. And...is that...a shark? <span style="font-style: italic">"Huh?"</span><br/>There are also humanoids aplenty, smooth-skinned and bereft of claws but no less dangerous: a group of shady-looking humans, tickets in hand, ascend the staircase to find a good seat. A beautiful girl with the ears and tail of a husky converses with an orc in the corner who leans boredly on a fifteen-pound double-headed battleaxe as if it were a walking staff. Two drow in chainmail bikinis walk past through the archway, one of them supporting a great bulbous sphere of a belly--the occupant of which is <span style="font-style: italic">still kicking.</span><br/><br/>A tournament of preds...<br/>Chicoa must admit, Tunello has concocted a rather ingenious scheme. The other combatants gathered here vary in shape and attitude, but all have least one thing in common: bigness. They are all sizeable creatures, well practiced in using their bulk to claim a perch high atop the food chain. It's hard to see how meager squirrelfolk tossed into the company of these deadly brutes could end up as anything more than a quick snack. If the 35-pound skirmishers can pull this off, it will be a major upset--and a big payoff.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">"<span style="text-decoration: underline">If</span> we can pull this off..."</span> thinks Chicoa. He looks to Richoa and Lyee. They are also gawking at the preds and seem to be feeling the same way he does: nervous, excited, slightly hopeful...but mostly nervous. These are big preds, and they are in their element. This stadium of bloodsport is a long way from the sparring mat of Talloak's barracks, where a misstep meant only a bruised hide and a bruised ego. One misstep here...and you get a tour of somebody's guts.<br/><br/>Chicoa notices that Namhib is quaking with fear. He steps forward to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder.<br/>Out of the corner of his eye he sees his owner produce a truncheon from the loop of his belt. He tenses, steadying himself for a beating for moving out of line.<br/><br/>But the club isn't for him. "They're mine!" says the salamander to a lanky ermine who had been eyeing the squirrels hungrily. He lifts the bludgeon. "Don't even think about it, or I'll make you regret it."<br/>The ermine snarls aggressively but soon loses interest, sensing no easy meal here.<br/><br/>Tunello pushes his charges onward through the crowd, tossing out more threats as necessary. Chicoa notes with a grim laugh that in Armel, apparently, promises of violence take the place of the friendly nod and "good day" exchanged between strangers in Pact society.<br/><br/>The five arrive at the back of the lobby, at a table staffed by a buxom human girl in a pink tube-top with short, curly blonde hair. She turns and greets them with a perfunctory smile.<br/>No, scratch that, she is most certainly <span style="font-style: italic">not</span> human: Chicoa glances beneath the plane of the table and sees several hundred pounds of armor-scaled serpentine muscle lying coiled beneath the table in a neat pile. A naga! Beauty aside, the girl is a man-eating monster.<br/><br/>Tunello exchanges words with the naga clerk.<br/>She is incredulous--"Squirrels, sir? The Feeding Frenzy event is not scheduled for another two hours..."<br/>But the salamander will have none of it. His pets are fighters, he insists. They are here for the Endurance Match! He shoves his entrance fee across the table.<br/>The naga shrugs. "Hey, whatever." She pushes back a form, and with an eager stroke of a quill Tunello seals the four rodents' fates.<br/><br/><br/>~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~<br/><br/><br/>The Endurance Match, Tunello explains on the way underground, is very simple in format. A single large pred waits in the arena. Challengers, either individuals or as a group, enter to try their luck. Anyone who manages to drop the pred wins an enormous prize...but this almost never happens. The matches are arranged so that the defender is an apex predator, and the challengers are of a lower tier. So it works out that the Endurance Match is, by design, a farcical bloodbath, a spectacle of gluttony solely for the benefit of the crowd. Wave after wave of greedy, over-confident (or coerced) challengers disappear down the pred's gullet, until the pred cannot eat any more and ends the match. Hence, the "Endurance" element refers more to stomach capacity than anything else. Winners are a rarity (and, rumor has it, most are staged), happening only just often enough to maintain the illusion that the prize is attainable. For a challenger to even <span style="font-style: italic">survive</span> an attempt is boast-worthy enough.<br/><br/>The five travel through the catacombs, passing countless rooms of cages and no less than a dozen branching hallways until at last, directed by the spear-toting bullywug guards, they arrive at the staging area. An iron portcullis is all that stands between this low-cieling room and the pit itself. Here they can watch the fight as it unfolds a stone's throw away, hear the roaring of the crowd overhead in response to the action, smell the heavy odor of blood wafting from the carnage. This is it.<br/><br/>When they arrive, the space is already jam-packed with challengers queued up for their attempt who block the narrow view of the arena. Even Tunello's truncheon cannot clear a path. But judging from the sounds of clashing and shouting outside, the event is already in progress.<br/><br/>"Here..." says Tunello hurriedly. He pulls a flask from a pocket. "Each of you take a sip from this. It's an elixir that will make you faster."<br/><br/>Chicoa is skeptical. But at the moment he has greater worries than being poisoned. He takes a swig and passes it around. It tastes awful, and does little to calm his fluttering stomach.<br/><br/>By now some of the other challengers have turned and noticed the newcomers, and seem to find their small stature very amusing. Chicoa ignores their taunts and cruel laughter and tries to focus his nerves for what lies ahead.<br/><br/>"I gotta get upstairs so I can place the bet. You four are going in as a group. Remember, just survive the round, that's all you gotta do." Tunello draws his lanyard, fishes for a key to unlock their collars. The four rub their tender necks, scratching days-old itches.<br/><br/>"Go grab some weapons and get ready! Yeah? Yeah! Let's do this!" Tunello pumps his arm excitedly.<br/><br/>Chicoa grimaces at the salamander's pep-talk. "Easy for you to say..." he mutters. "You're not the one going in there."<br/>A wordless glance darts furtively between the four newly-freed slaves. <span style="font-style: italic">Should we jump Tunello? Or no? Make a run for it? It would be risky, but...</span><br/><br/><br/>Outside, the crowd suddenly goes wild with howling bloodlust. The current challenger has failed, and is on his way down the gullet.<br/><br/><br/>"Next!" croaks a bullywug guard who stands ready at the winch mechanism.<br/><br/>A pair of female humans are up. They make last-second adjustments to the straps of their spiked platemail, lift their weapons (a trident/net for one and a spear for the other), and nod to the guards. Slowly the iron portcullis cranks up into the cieling. When it reaches shoulder-height, the two dash under and shout dramatically for the crowd. The gate crashes down behind them.<br/><br/>Their departure leaves a gap in the queue; quickly the squirrels step in to fill it. At last they can press themselves to the bars and get an eyeful of their soon-to-be opponent.<br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/>"Oh...gods..." says Lyee.<br/><br/>"It cannot be..." says Richoa.<br/><br/>"No..." says Chicoa. His heart clenches like it has been submerged into ice water. "No...please, no..."<br/><br/>Standing in the center of the pit with one hand resting comfortably on the sphere of her belly is an all-too-familiar dragongirl. <span style="font-style: italic">"...Puime!?"</span><br/><br/><br/>Puime, Pact Champion of Talloak. Puime the paladin, defender of the meek, healer of the sick. The same Puime who comforted the orphan Namhib after she lost her parents, who years ago saved Richoa by devouring a Manticore which had been inches away from devouring him. The same Puime whose stirring oratory was what first inspired Lyee to pick up a bow and join the militia...<br/><br/>The very same Puime...to whom Chicoa had once confessed his love. An unrequited love...<br/><br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">"That...can't be her."</span><br/><br/>Except for a jet-black collar the dragongirl is nude, a breath-taking figure of burnished gold. She is as youthfully alluring as she is deadly; beneath her pinched waist and full curves glide muscles as sculpted as those on a statue of a goddess. She is not 'naked', but 'nude'--the difference being a matter of poise. 'Naked' implies shame and vulnerability, and there is nothing vulnerable about this girl. Rather, if anything her nudity just highlights her <span style="font-style: italic">in</span>vulnerability, that of a true apex predator, a resplendent vision of draconic power with no need for manufactured weapons or protection.<br/><br/>Puime (or whoever she is) stands at the pit's center, a falchion at her feet, slowly rubbing the hugeness of her belly. Somewhere on the other side of those taut scales the falchion's late owner has just splashed into the crowded stomach, joining the who-knows-how-many others stewing within its tight confines. The other failed challengers of this Endurance Match...<br/><br/><br/>The human warriors charge at the dragongirl, platemail rattling with each stride. At ten paces out they veer apart to flank-attack her from opposite sides.<br/><br/><br/>The pred just stands there, rubbing her churning belly and staring up at the leering crowd, seemingly oblivious to the attacker's loud approach.<br/><br/><br/>Only at the very last second, just as the spear-wielder is raising her weapon and lunging into melee range, does she finally spring into action: with a swift strike of her right claw she deflects the incoming thrust--with the same movement she pivots to within the spear's radius and counters brutally with a left uppercut. The resulting <span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="font-style: italic">*THUD*</span></span>, as the momentum of the human's own lunge is converted into an impact to her chest, is loud enough to be audible all the way across the pit even over the roar of the crowd.<br/><br/>The spear-wielder stumbles back, off-balance and gasping for breath. Her breastplate has four new holes in it.<br/><br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">"Yeah."</span> thinks Chicoa. <span style="font-style: italic">"It's Puime alright."</span><br/><br/><br/>The second human skillfully hurls her net; the weave of metal cord flairs open and entangles her target. But the warrior quickly learns that an entangled dragongirl...is not necessarily a harmless dragongirl. Puime turns, coils her legs, and launches herself airborne--seemingly unburdened by her ponderous middle.<br/><br/>The warrior intervenes with her trident and scores a hit, but cannot evade the pounce.<br/><br/>Puime lands heavily, slamming her prey onto its back. She then throws all of her weight forward, pinning the warrior under the squirming mass of her belly.<br/><br/>And just like that, the pair's dramatic charge is put down. The challengers now find themselves on the defensive.<br/><br/>Even with a net, spiked plates, and a layer of chainmail in her way, Puime has little trouble digging all four claws into the flesh of the prone human, raking, slashing and slashing again, drawing arcs of blood (and cheers from the sadistic crowd) with each blow. The trident-wielder gives a furious yell (dampened by the weight upon her lungs) and retaliates as best she can. Which is...not very well at all.<br/><br/><br/>A few paces away, the spear-wielder recovers her strength. She tightens her grip on the haft of her weapon and lunges once more, this time attacking the rear of the occupied dragongirl. The polearm scores a hit. The crowd whoops in excitement.<br/><br/>The pred flinches in pain, turns her head only slightly to glare at the attacker with the corner of one eye.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="font-style: italic">*swhick*</span></span> Her tail lashes out like a snake, wraps around the spear-wielder's ankle and yanks it out from beneath her. The warrior crashes to the floor.<br/><br/>The trident-wielder wriggles her free arm and, sensing that this is her last chance to turn the tide, winds up for a powerful thrust of her trident. Puime notices, bares her pointy fangs in a deadly smile.<br/><br/>The half-pinned warrior thrusts right at the unarmored nape of the dragongirl's neck.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">*HCHONK-<span style="font-style: italic">CRUNCH</span>*</span> Puime catches the trident with her mouth and <span style="font-style: italic">bites off its three-pronged head.</span> The hapless human is left holding a splintered wooden handle...and her breath.<br/><br/>Chicoa cannot see the girl's expression, but he can guess how she must be feel right about now. The heady endorphin rush of the initial charge has drained away, leaving only a cold, terrible reality: entering this match was a bad idea. A really bad idea.<br/><br/>Puime chews the pointy metal into tiny shreds, then swallows loudly. <span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="font-style: italic">*CRONCH-CRONCH-CRNK</span>nglp!*</span><br/><br/>Spear-girl is on her feet again. This time Puime strikes first: she cracks her tail like a bull-whip before the human has a chance to lunge.<br/><br/>The whip appears to miss. Nevertheless the human hesitates, lowers her weapon. She takes an unsteady step left, then sways right. Her spear clatters to the floor, followed by a few droplets of blood. The drops become rivulets...torrents. The bloodied warrior makes one final motion, raising both arms to clutch at her neck, then collapses onto her back, where she remains. Foot-long black rods, like chitinous crossbow bolts, are visible jutting from beneath her gorget. <span style="font-style: italic">Manticore spines.</span><br/><br/>The rest of the fight...unfolds predictably. Puime untangles herself from the net, then grabs the battered trident-wielder by the collar and hoists her to her feet. The human tries to resist, beats futilely at the pred with what remains of her weapon, but her fate is sealed. The roar of the crowd seems to reach a crescendo of howling delight, to Chicoa's disgust. <span style="font-style: italic">"They're loving this, the soddin' bastards..."</span><br/><br/>Puime's jaws part, narrowly at first but quickly widening as she draws her face closer to her prey's. There she pauses...and her lips move in speech that Chicoa cannot read at a distance. Whatever she says, it seem to calms the other girl's struggling for a brief moment. Until, of course, Puime's jaws yawn wide and <span style="font-style: italic">*glomph*</span> down over the human's head.<br/><br/>Four wolfish swallows. That's all it takes. With less time and effort than it took Chicoa to eat his morning stew, Puime tosses back the thrashing human and swallows her alive, metal spikes and all. Chicoa stares...part of him is disgusted, wants to look away...but he cannot tear his eyes away, as the armored warrior is drawn irretrievably out of sight. Within seconds the beautiful pred closes her jaws around the plated boots. Seconds after that, her neck and torso return to their original shape as the squirming bolus slides into its destination.<br/><br/><br/><br/>Chicoa, his heart pounding with difficult emotions, finally peels himself away from the action and looks around. Tunello is gone, having darted upstairs while the rest stood entranced. The four are now unattended and uncollared...could they just leave this awful place? Yet no sooner does the thought occur to him than he is forced to dismiss it. The tunnels are a maze of narrow, heavily guarded passageways; there are no trees to climb to safety. The four may be uncollared, but they are still property which has been officially entered into an Endurance Match. If they run, they'll likely be cornered by bullywugs. And then what? Probably beaten up, and tossed into the arena anyways...<span style="font-style: italic">without</span> equipment.<br/><br/><br/>"Next!" croaks the winch operator.<br/><br/><br/>Ricoa suddenly spasms with remembrance, and turns to meet Chicoa's gaze. "Weapons. We need weapons--<span style="font-style: italic">now</span>."<br/><br/>"What is Puime doing here..." mews Namhib hopelessly.<br/><br/>"Likely the same thing we're doing here. Being used." says Chicoa.<br/><br/>"How...can we fight <span style="font-style: italic">her</span>?" says Lyee. The question has a double meaning. "This is sick..."<br/><br/>"We do not have a choice." says Richoa coldly. The old buck's voice is carefully scrubbed of emotion, but his body language speaks volumes: he is deeply disturbed, and terrified.<br/><br/>Chicoa knows why.<br/>Back in the barracks of Talloak, Puime's record on the sparring mat had been the stuff of legend. Whenever he sparred with her, she always went easy on him--and even then he almost always lost. In fact, of all of the times he had ever watched from the sidelines, Chicoa can only recall a single fighter who had been able to soundly defeat her time after time in the ring: Tigon Bloodhammer, the foul-mouthed dwarf berserker, who was essentially a 200-pound boulder with a beard.<br/><br/>Unfortunately, Tigon got himself eaten by a giantess during the sack of Talloak. The four little tree-rodents are on their own...<br/><br/><br/>They hustle quickly towards the back of the staging area and into the adjacent armory. The complementary equipment stinks something awful (Chicoa tries not to think about where it has been), but is otherwise of surprisingly high quality. Lyee browses a rack of bows, testing their size and  draw weight. Namhib burrows into a pile of armor in search of squirrel-sized suits. Chicoa and Richoa clamber up onto a rack of weapons, inspecting the various blades and bludgeons and pole-arms. They move swiftly--very swiftly, even for nervous squirrels: their paws grabbing and tossing in a blur while their tails twitch madly.<br/><br/>"H-huh." says Lyee with a dim laugh. "Guess th-this elixir really works."<br/><br/><br/>~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~<br/><br/><br/>It doesn't take long for the queue to thin out.<br/><br/>A pair of hobgoblins dart around the pit, spending more time shouting to the crowd than engaging their target. <span style="font-style: italic">"Maybe they're also trying to survive a round, to win a bet?"</span> Chicoa wonders. He doesn't get a chance to find out; after thirty seconds of this buffoonery Puime seems to lose her patience and, with two quick pounces, devours them both.<br/><br/><br/>"Next!"<br/><br/><br/>A well-built human with braided blond hair, dual-wielding a warhammer and a short sword. He puts up a decent fight, whirling and stabbing with well-developed martial technique. He manages to clock Puime over the head not once but <span style="font-style: italic">twice</span> when she tries to devour him. But when he tries this a third time, she eats his hammer. After that, the tide of the battle quickly turns against him. Ten seconds later he is plunging head-first to join his hammer...<br/><br/><br/>"Next!"<br/><br/><br/>A dark elf youth, apparently niether armed nor armored. As soon as she gets into the pit Chicoa sees why: no sooner does the portcullis slam shut than does she gesture cryptically with her hands and levitate ten feet from the ground. Puime pauses in thought, and then crouches defensively in expectation of some painful magic. Sure enough, a crackling sphere of blue electricity appears in the drow's outstretched palm and leaps towards the dragongirl, where it detonates in a shower of sparks. The drow immediately throws another, another, a third and fourth and fifth volley, still floating out of reach above the arena floor. The center of the arena is soon enveloped in a haze of acrid ozone smoke. The crowd's opinion is divided by this new turn of events: some are entertained by the pyrotechnic show, while others boo at the cowardly tactics and lack of devouring.<br/><br/>The drow floats closer to inspect her handiwork (forming a lightning bolt in her hands just to be safe)--when the smoke is whorled outwards by a sudden flurry of dark projectiles. The sorceress yelps and quickly raises her force shield...but not quickly enough. Four of the spines penetrate her force armor and lodge deep in her flesh; her lightning bolt spell fizzles out from the pain.<br/><br/>Puime comes tearing out of the smoke, singed with electrical burns but far from defeated. She passes a spear on the arena floor, scoops it up into her claws without missing a step.<br/><br/>The sorceress recovers, channels her energy into a second lightning bolt even larger and brighter then the first.<br/><br/>Simultaneously, both drow and dragongirl let fly their deadly missiles. The crowd goes wild.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">*KKRACK-<span style="font-weight: bold">BOOM!</span>*         *THUNK*</span><br/><br/>The spear impales the sorceress right through the chest, not stopping until it has emerged nearly halfway out the opposite side. "Hrrrk!" she gasps, and her concentration fails. She drops out of the air--right into waiting arms of the smoking-but-still-standing Puime.<br/><br/>The ex-paladin removes the spear with the careful, tender hands of a healer. With fading strength the drow kicks, curses, squirms until one arm is free, then frantically gestures and incants a spell to--<br/><br/>--but it is far too late for that. Puime crams the hard-won prize into her waiting maw, draws her in with her muscular tongue, and swallows her alive. The spell, if it manages to get cast at all, is absorbed in the darkness of the dragongirl's gut.<br/><br/><br/><br/>"Next!"<br/><br/><br/><br/>The suited-up and armed-to-the-teeth squirrels look around. They are the only four left in the staging room.<br/><br/>"..." Chicoa shudders.<br/><br/>"..." Lyee sighs despondently.<br/><br/>"Wait!" squeaks Namhib, to the others' surprise. "We've changed our minds! We're not actually going in there...we're leaving."<br/><br/><br/><br/>The bullywug blinks impassively.<br/><br/><br/><br/>"Namhib..." says Lyee sadly.<br/><br/>"C-come on." says Namhib, trembling. She starts away from the portcullis, towards the entrance. "We're goin--<span style="font-style: italic">eep!</span>" She flinches and stops in her tracks, her nose a half-inch away from the guard's suddenly-lowered spear.<br/><br/><br/>"You're up." croaks the bullywug forcefully. "You go in Pit <span style="font-weight: bold">now</span>. No delay." There is no compassion in his bulbous frog-eyes. He has seen dozens...hundreds of slaves march to their death. If it ever bothered him the slightest bit, he has long since gotten over it. In the dimness of the tunnel behind him, four other bullywugs stand armed, ready to back him up.<br/><br/>"Namhib, child..." says Richoa, putting on his best patriarchal voice for the orphan. "This is difficult...but we cannot run. We must go out there, and survive until the sandglass runs out."<br/><br/>"For that slimy creep!?" squeaks Namhib.<br/><br/>"No. For ourselves." says Chicoa. "And for Puime's sake."<br/><br/>"We'll be free then." adds Lyee. "free to find allies, gather real equipment. Rescue the others."<br/><br/><br/>Namhib trembles, opens her mouth as if to argue, but nothing comes out. She steels herself, and grimly returns to stand alongside the others.<br/><br/><br/><br/>The portcullis begins to crank upward.<br/><br/><br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">"(celestial)Holy Euphera, Lords of Light,"</span> intones Richoa, <span style="font-style: italic">"watch over us now."</span><br/>The others join in: <span style="font-style: italic">"(celestial)Grant us the strength to carry the light, the endurance to bear the dark. Grant us the..."</span><br/><br/><br/>When they step out into the arena their prayer is washed away by the roar of the audience. Jeers, laughs, cat-calls, all louder than before and made all the worse by the fact that the source of the noise--row upon row of faces cast in stark shadow--is now visible above them to all sides.<br/><br/>The laughter is the worst. The dark elf girl had gotten a few laughs for being unarmed, but it had been nothing like this: hooting, malevolent laughter. <span style="font-style: italic">"Rodents!!!"</span> They are a walking joke, some comic relief to end a good match.<br/><br/><br/><br/><br/>The portcullis slams down behind them, shutting like an implacable maw.<br/><br/><br/>The dragongirl turns and fixes the four with a stare.<br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/>...Time stops...<br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/>Chicoa's heart finally beats again, after what feels like an eternity. "Move!" he shouts.<br/><br/>The skirmishers dart into motion, spreading out in three different directions: Lyee and Richoa to the left, Namhib to the right, and Chicoa straight forward at half pace.<br/><br/>Puime does not react at first, merely stands there rubbing her absurdly swollen middle, where the final strugglings of the drow, humans, hobgoblins and others are visible as vague lumps sliding beneath the taut surface. This many struggling humanoids, close to 200 pounds each with equipment, is a huge meal even for a such a prodigious pred. She is starting to show signs of sluggishness and fatigue; she looks more ready for a nap than a battle.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">"This might be easier than we thought..."</span> Chicoa dares to think. The match might even end in a withdrawal, as Tunello suggested eventually happens in an Endurance Match when the pred is full...<br/><br/>Chicoa <span style="font-style: italic">could</span> just stand back, and wait for the sandglass to run out. The crowd wouldn't like it...<span style="font-style: italic">"but to soddin' hell with them. I'll just stand here. Let them boo."</span> But then it occurs to him, that if the match ends in such an anticlimax he might never get a real chance to see Puime up close, to talk to her...and, for all he knows, if things don't work out this could be the last chance he ever has...<br/><br/>Chicoa could just stand back. He knows that he really should. Yet he finds himself taking a step closer, and another. Bouyed by the pred's apparent lack of hunger and a burning desire to see her face-to-face, Chicoa strides to the center of the arena to face the pred.<br/><br/><br/>"Chicoa!?" cries a horrified Lyee.<br/><br/><br/>Up close, the ex-paladin's face is heart-breaking. Her iridescent eyes reveal a deep sadness, with dark bags beneath them that make Chicoa look well-rested by comparison. What looked like a deadly smirk from afar was really a grimace, the pained look of a soul that mourns for each life it takes.<br/><br/>"Chickie..." she says, her voice like a drop of dark honey. "I'm sorry."<br/><br/>"No, I'm sorry." says Chicoa. It isn't a very coherent response, but the squirrel can barely think straight with all of the emotions flooding his head.<br/><br/>"The nagas...they've done this. I...can't stop."<br/>She leans forward onto her massive, groaning stomach; Chicoa shivers and retreats a step backwards.<br/>His reaction causes her to cringe in shame. "I've...become a monster."<br/><br/>"Puime, I...." Chicoa begins. But he does not get a chance to finish. For at that very moment a terrifying look seizes the dragongirl's features: her eyes snap open fully, pupils dilate, lips draw back to reveal rows of knife-sharp teeth, talons dig deeply into the stone floor of the pit. It is pure, carnal hunger, an emotion Chicoa has never seen on her.<br/><br/><br/>The crowd reacts positively, certain that they are about to see some squirrel-nomming action. They are right.<br/><br/><br/>"RUN!" yells Puime. But the warning comes too late; at nearly the same instant she lunges forward and slashes powerfully at his face.<br/>Chicoa deflects the attack with his shield, just barely. His prey instincts take over now, and before he is even conscious of the action he is already backpedaling, trying to put distance between himself at the ravenous pred while swiping ineffectual counter-attacks with his longsword.<br/><br/>Puime follows him close; even with the encumbrance of her belly her stride is still much longer than his. She swipes again, and again he just barely meets the blow with his shield. Only this time, her claws hit dead-on and puncture right through the thin metal plate--and right through Chicoa's forearm. Hot blood squelches inside and outside of his armor. He can no longer feel anything below his left elbow, only a throbbing haze of pain.<br/><br/>The crowd might be cheering, or might not be, Chicoa cannot tell; his awareness narrows down to a tunnel-vision view of his impending death between those hauntingly beautiful jaws. A few seconds more, and the next claw will reach down to grab him...<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic"><span style="font-weight: bold">*thuck!* *thuck!*</span></span> Three wooden shafts sail through the air, two of them strike Puime in the shoulder. <span style="font-style: italic">Lyee!</span><br/><br/>Puime growls and rise back to her full height, harassed now from three sides. Richoa has charged into the fray, halberd whirling, and is assaulting her flank.<br/><br/>This breaks Chicoa's death-trance, and re-awakens his warrior spirit. <span style="font-style: italic">"I'm not done, not yet!"</span> The blade in his paw, mere dead weight before, suddenly comes to life and leaps forth in a lightning-fast sequence of slashes.<br/><br/>Puime pivots in place to kick Richoa, sending him sprawling onto his back--with the same pivoting motion she also lashes out with her tail to trip the squirrel behind her. But unlike the earlier human, Chicoa is familiar with this trick; he's seen the dragongirl use it countless times. The moment she turns, he coils his legs, and when the lash comes he springs over it, tucks through 360-degree flip, and lands back on his feet in time to deliver a counter attack.<br/><br/>A counter attack that does absolutely nothing. He might as well be swatting at her with a twig, for all the damage his sword is doing against her scales. <span style="font-style: italic">"A dull blade? Or am I holding back..."</span><br/><br/>The next tail-lashing comes down at a diagonal, strikes Chicoa dead on. It is all he can do to tumble with the blow, converting what might have been a broken spine into merely a broken rib or two. When he finally comes to a rest he is five paces away from Puime and flat on his stomach.<br/><br/>"Ahhh!!" comes a squeaking cry.<br/><br/>Chicoa lifts his face from the dirty floor to look. The dragongirl is holding Richoa by the neck with one claw; in the other claw she holds his halberd, snapped in half.<br/><br/><br/>As the other squirrels watch in horror, Puime tilts her head back and drops the old buck onto her long pink tongue. He flails--maybe it is an attempt at escape, maybe just panic--in any case it is futile, and does nothing to delay what comes next.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">*GULP*</span> One swallow is all it takes to send the 35-pound morsel down. One swallow, and Richoa glides past Puime's collarbone. Gone.<br/><br/><br/>"Shit!" curses Chicoa, and he scrambles into a sprint, running on all fours (all threes, really, since his shield-arm is useless) part of the way.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic"><span style="font-weight: bold">*thuck!*</span></span> Another volley of arrows from Lyee's bow shatters against Puime's scales; only one draws blood.<br/><br/><br/>Chicoa dashes towards his archer comrade, while looking side-long for Namhib. <span style="font-style: italic">"Where did she go?"</span><br/><br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">*snap!*</span> <span style="font-style: italic">*wwh<span style="font-weight: bold">THUN-THUN-THUN-THUNK*</span></span><br/>"Eggh!"  Lyee takes four manticore spines to the torso.<br/><br/>Chicoa wants to scream in horror, but the sound just doesn't come. Between pain, exhaustion, and waking nightmare that has been his life for the last week, the squirrel is just all horrored-out. He reaches Lyee in time to watch her drop her bow and collapse in a gurgling heap. The thudding of heavy footfalls behind him tells him that he cannot stop, cannot carry Lyee or even lay a comforting paw over his dying friend's paw. So he keeps sprinting.<br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">"There!"</span> At last he spots Namhib, 20 feet up the wall, only a few feet from the audience. <span style="font-style: italic">"Of course! What kind of squirrel am I, forgetting to climb!"</span><br/><br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">*snap!*</span> Hearing that deadly bullwhip sound, Chicoa dives prone. A millisecond later, a volley of spines mutilates the air above him, missing him except for a nick to one ear and a chunk torn from the fluff of his tail.<br/><br/>Then he is back on his feet, sprinting as fast as his little elixir-augmented-tree-rodent body will carry him. He reaches the wall, hurls himself against it and clambers up the vertical surface without slowing down. Namhib is waiting for him at the top, her cowardly face full of apologies, but Chicoa has no time for them. <span style="font-style: italic">"No time..."<br/>"Time...How much longer in this round? Are we almost done?"</span> He cannot tell whether it has been a minute or ten seconds. He tries to climb over the top of the wall, but some kind of invisible force shoves him back.<br/><br/><br/><br/>Puime reaches Lyee. The fallen squirrel, true to her militia training, has drawn a short sword and risen unsteadily to one knee, ready to fight to the bitter end. The claw descends, easily knocks the small blade aside, and seizes the prey by the arm. Lyee is tossed high into the air and tumbles down into a wide-open maw; gravity alone does half of the work of sending her into the throat. She manages one last pitiful squeak...<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">*GULP*</span>--the slick flesh ripples around her, sending her down.<br/><br/><br/><br/>The two on the wall are the only ones left. Chicoa hunkers down, taking cover from the next volley of spines.<br/><br/>The seconds tick by, but the spines don't come. <span style="font-style: italic">"She...she must be out of ammo!"</span><br/>It is the first good news he's had in a long while, and it's about time. With no effective ranged attack, and no means of climbing a sheer wall (especially not with a belly like that), Puime now poses little threat.<br/><br/>"We'll wait here." he says to the trembling Namhib, "Just a little bit longer, and we--"<span style="color: #FF0000"><span style="font-style: italic">*FWOOOO<span style="font-weight: bold">OOOOSH*</span></span></span><br/><br/>Their perch on top of the wall becomes a bonfire. <span style="font-style: italic">"Shit. Forgot that she's a dragon..."</span><br/><br/><br/>Somewhere in the holocaust, amidst the eye-searing heat and vapors of incinerated fur, Chicoa and Namhib both lose their grip.<br/><br/>Chicoa manages to break his fall somewhat by tumbling, and quickly bounces to his feet.<br/><br/>Namhib is not so lucky; she lands on her face right next to Puime, where she is immediately grabbed.<br/><br/>"Aaeeeeeeiiii!" she squeals. She soon stares down into the dragongirl's insatiable maw.<br/><br/>Puime hesitates a moment, her heartstrings plucked by memories of having once spent hours comforting Namhib and building up her confidence. To now devour her like this is beyond irony...it is just twisted. Unfortunately, irony or no, her hunger is undeniable. She drops the wailing squirrelgirl onto her tongue and snaps her jaw shut around her, leaving only a thrashing tail outside. Namhib scrambles feverishly, scratching and kicking at the ivory cage and the dripping pink flesh, to no avail; the cavernous darkness of the gullet only gets closer and closer...<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">*GULP*</span> The tail disappears from sight, along with the lump that is Namhib. Chicoa is now alone with the pred.<br/><br/><br/><br/>Suddenly, a metallic crash echoes across the arena.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">"A gong? Sweet merciful gods, the end of the round!"</span> thinks Chicoa, and his knees nearly give out in relief. Somehow, amidst all the horror and loss, he allows himself a surge of joy: he made it. Once he gets out into the town and contacts some allies, the others' deaths will not have been in vain. And Puime...<br/><br/>"Puime..." he says softly.<br/><br/>With the end of the round, the dragongirl's predatory frenzy ends and she sits down in place to resume stroking her belly sadly. She looks up distractedly at Chicoa.<br/><br/>"Chickie..." she responds guiltily. "I ate them all...."<br/><br/>"Don't worry, Puime. It's not...your fault. The soddin' nagas made you do it, I know that. The others...knew that. Nobody blames you."<br/><br/>His words slide past her ears without entering her thoughts. She continues to stare despairingly at her belly, disgusted by what she has done--disgusted, especially, by how much she...<span style="font-style: italic">enjoyed it,</span> on a shameful level.<br/><br/>"I am a monster, Chicoa." she says darkly.<br/><br/>"!!! Stop saying that! It's not true. You're a good person Puime...the most wonderful I've ever met." he moves closer, and stands on his toes to reach up and pat her bloodied cheek. "This whole damn thing...is a soddin' mess. These Free Kingdom bastards have ruined our lives, and now their messing with our heads to boot." he forces himself to laugh.<br/>"But just hang in there, ok? I'm free now, I can leave this place. I'll go out, and find other free people, people who still believe in the Pact. We'll bring this whole slaver racket to its knees, you just wait! <span style="font-style: italic">(celestial)Justice will prevail!</span>"<br/><br/><br/>She looks at Chicoa. And, for just a moment, something of the old Puime finally registers in her eyes. Very faintly, so faint he almost misses it--she smiles a little.<br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/>A second metallic crash echoes across the arena. <span style="font-weight: bold">Round 2.</span><br/><br/><br/><br/>"Wait!"<br/>For a fleeting instant, Chicoa clings to a confused hope.<br/>"Wait, no!" he cries out. "I'm leaving!"<br/>He takes a few frantic steps, looks at the crowd, at the closed portcullis, up at the curtained-off VIP box where the Sogluyem nobles are lounging.<br/>"No...There's been a mistake!"<br/><br/><br/>Then bleakness of reality sets in. There's no mistake. <span style="font-style: italic">There is no leaving an Endurance Match,</span> not for a slave, not without the master's explicit request.<br/><br/>He had been set up from the beginning...<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">"Remember, just survive the round, that's all you gotta do."</span> Tunello had said. He hadn't said anything about what would happen next. Because, frankly, he didn't give half a shit. Chicoa had followed his order like a good slave, and now the slimy bastard had his gold.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">"Damn him..."</span> Chicoa growls, his heart re-hardening. He curses himself for having allowed irrational hope and trust to cloud his judgement. He should have seen this coming. He should have asked questions, probed that liar's story as they were descending into the catacombs and sniffed out this deception well beforehand. Namhib was right all along: they should have tried to make a break for it back then. They could have--<br/><br/><br/><br/>"Chicoa." says Puime. Her voice trembles with apprehension. "You need to leave. Now. Right now."<br/><br/><br/>"!!!"<br/>Chicoa's train of 'should-of's, 'could-of's abruptly derails as he realizes what is about to happen.<br/>"..."<br/><br/><br/>"I don't want to eat you, Chickie. Not you." she looks at him despairingly, "anyone but you..."<br/><br/><br/>"They...I was lied to, Puime." He takes a deep, bitter breath. "Looks like I'm not leaving here after all."<br/>He steps back, and for a moment his instincts flare and he contemplates fleeing.<br/>But then... <span style="font-style: italic">"What's the point?"</span> He is so tired.<br/><br/><br/>"..." Puime deflates upon realizing that her hope for Chicoa's survival (and, if he succeeded out there, her own) has vanished as abruptly as it arose.<br/><br/><br/>Chicoa takes another, deep, ragged breath. He doesn't have many options left.<br/>"Please...eat me now, while you're still gentle." He collapses in an exhausted heap against the nude dragongirl's warm, shifting, gurgling belly.<br/><br/><br/>"Chicoa..."<br/><br/><br/>"...before they make you all feral again. Please."<br/><br/><br/>"...I will." She reaches down with a claw, softly ruffles the top of his head. "Don't worry."<br/>The squirrel shivers under her touch, then slackens in defeat.<br/>"You will be close to me always now, Chickie." she says warmly. "I will keep you in my innermost heart."<br/><br/><br/>Suddenly Puime feels the familiar psychic thrust, reverberating through the damned collar and violating her mind once again.<br/><span style="font-style: italic"><span style="font-weight: bold">~Feed.~</span></span> it commands.<br/><span style="font-style: italic">~Go to Hell.~</span> she responds in kind and, for once, shoves the intrusion from her mind.<br/><br/><br/>The crowd is confused and bored by the dragongirl's placidity and the prey's lack of fear; some even boo and jeer.<br/><br/>Puime ignores them. Chicoa does not even hear them.<br/><br/><br/>Slowly, gently, Puime lifts Chicoa up and parts her jaws before him. He gasps at the sight, the razor-sharp teeth and quivering tongue that are somehow frightening and beautiful in the very same way. He blushes; how many times had he dreamed of being intimate with her...and now, perversely, he was getting it as a last wish. (Were Tigon here, he'd make some crude joke about 'deep throat'...)<br/><br/><br/>"You aren't a monster, Puime." he says, barely above a whisper. "You...I still do love you. Still."<br/><br/><br/>The dragongirl smiles again. "Oh Chickie..."<br/>She draws him close, and kisses him. Nothing passionate, just a chaste peck--but it melts Chicoa into a boneless puddle nonetheless.<br/><br/><br/>Then, feeling the urge within her growing stronger, Puime opens wide again and takes the bloodied, flame-singed squirrelfolk into her eager maw.<br/><br/><br/>Chicoa adoringly reaches out a paw to caress the hot, slick surface that firmly envelopes and ripples around him, closes his eyes as her moist breath ruffles his fur. It is nothing like what he imagined...who could have imagined anything like this...it is beyond words...<br/><br/><br/>Puime pauses, shifts and slides him thoughtfully with her tongue. Her own eyes drift closed.<br/><br/>She holds him like this for several long seconds, making contented noises as she savors his taste.<br/><br/>Finally the impulse grows too strong to ignore. She cranes her head back and swallows powerfully.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic"><span style="font-weight: bold">*GL</span>-GLUNK*</span><br/><br/>And so Chicoa departs the world of endless winters...the world of marauding giantesses and lying salamanders. He plummets down his beloved's throat, past the steady timpani of her heart and into her dark depths of her body...<br/><br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">*glorrg-glg*</span> comments her already-overloaded stomach as yet one more morsel splashes in to join the rest.<br/><br/><br/>"Chicoa, Namhib, Lyee, Richoa..." Puime says softly, not sure if they can still hear her. "I'll never forget you."<br/>She sits motionless for a full minute, lost in thought, her claw tracing slow circles across the surface of her churning belly. <span style="font-style: italic">"I will avenge you all...somehow."</span><br/><br/><br/>Then she peers up past the crowd, to the Sogluyem's private lounge.<br/><br/>"I am not a monster." she growls. "But <span style="font-style: italic">you</span>..."<br/>"I <span style="font-style: italic">will</span> eat you, Ellith. Mark my words."<br/><br/><br/><br/><br/>~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~<br/><br/><br/><br/><br/>From her perch high above the arena, Ellith Sogluyem glares down at her prize pet through a gap in the curtains.<br/><br/>"She almost...<span style="font-style: italic">resisted</span> me that time." She snorts. "The last little rat must've been, like, important to her, or something."<br/><br/><br/><br/>"Huh." says Lev Sogluyem, not really paying attention.<br/><br/><br/><br/>"Whatever. I'll punish her later." The queen of the nagas shrugs, then looks brightly to her court. "Let's dig up another case of Mordayn powder. I feel like an orgy."</div></div></div>