<span style="font-size: 150%; line-height: 116%;"><span style="font-weight: bold">Timmy Norwest</span></span><br/><br/>The truck jerked to a halt, throwing us against each other, and the unfortunate souls at the front against the burning-hot vents that let the engine’s waste heat into the back. We needed it. In nothing but the briefest of briefs, we were brutally exposed to the cold. Then the engine rattled into silence, and we knew this wasn’t just another traffic jam, stop sign or halt signal… we’d arrived. I heard the clack of cowgirl boots against tarmac, as our driver and herder rounded the box-van, then the rear door was pulled open, in the only way it could be - from outside.<br/><br/>She unclipped our lead-chain, and pulled us out of the van, the yank transmitted from neck-collar to neck-collar, or not, as the next stockboy in line either moved fast enough or failed to. I saw ‘Boister’s Quick Snacks’ written above the door, or thought I did - I don’t read that well, and I’m bad with numbers. The plate-glass windowfront beneath it was empty.<br/><br/>“Hi,” she said cheerily, greeting the young woman behind the till… whose bulging stomach writhed and churned and struggled with life.<br/><br/>“Hi yourself,” the young woman greeted. “Thank goodness you’re here. We’ll be opening soon for the breakfast rush, and not even a single boy in stock.” She stroked her tum, lightly, and it bulged out as if trying to strike her. For a moment, she frowned, then her stomach gurgled so loudly, and... from within… I heard screaming. “Don’t think it can’t get worse if you misbehave,” she told it firmly, and it… settled. “I got peckish so I ate my till-assistant,” she explained, “and of these have the skills to replace him?”<br/><br/>“None of them were in line to be releasees,” our escort said, studying us doubtfully.<br/><br/>“Someone’s lucky day, then,” the girl said. “I’ll put the ‘help wanted’ sign in the door, and if whichever of them hasn’t done well by the time I’ve an applicant they can go back in the window,” she smiles, “men may not like working here, but the smart ones know somewhere with easy access to stockboys is the safest place for a free man to work.”<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">So long as the stock delivery isn’t delayed</span>, I thought.<br/><br/>“Whatever,” our driver says, handing over our choke-chain. “Just sign here, please.”<br/><br/>The girl does so, then we’re towed behind the serving bar and into the window display… from where passing women can be enticed to pay our stockprice to Boisters, and gulp us down for a tasty takeaway breakfast, lunch or dinner…<br/><br/>“Now, who’s the best at math?” She asks patronisingly, once we’re chained to the wall in the window. “Stockboys like you cost twenty-three bucks fifty, plus a dollar fifty for unlimited condiments. How much change do you give for a fifty if the vore buying you takes a condiment?”<br/><br/>[I might’ve done this as an attack by her against his Mental Defence, but I decided instead to make it a skill challenge verses the other stockboys. Tim gets two dice, one standard, one because this is arguably a herd activity… resultsm<a class="postlink" href="http://orokos.com/roll/m-euanthe">http://orokos.com/roll/m-euanthe</a>m… lucky for Timmy he gets a 6, which counts as critical success, and as a tiebreaker with anyone else who has a 6 he has additionally a 5 (most of the stockboys do not have Timmy’s quality and share is poor education so roll only one dice).]<br/><br/>“Correct,” our herder says, somewhat to both our surprise. Firmly, strongly, she releases my collar and pulls me out of the windowfront. I’m struck once again by this strange feeling within my loins, whenever one of the deadly dangerous vores approaches me. “I’ll give you a shot, I guess,” she continues. “But the help wanted sign is going in the door, and if I’m not satisfied with you when there’s an applicant, you’re going back into the window.”<br/><br/>Where, I knew, I’d soon be eaten, perhaps by this very girl.<br/><br/>“Now,” she continues, as she sticks the help-wanted card in the window and steps back to examine her handiwork. “The job’s pretty simple,” she says, tossing him a branded top and too-short-shorts that show signs of having been removed in a struggle. A pair of sandals lie forlorn and forgotten, mute tribute to the gruesome fate of he who’d worn them. “Ring up what the customer wants, take their money and give them change or run it through the card-machine. I’ll get the stock out, and you squirt or sprinkle on seasoning as requested,” she gestures to an array of such behind the serving bar, then the customer takes the meal and that’s that.” She nods firmly. “I’m opening now,” she says, flipping the sign and sashaying back behind the bar, full belly wobbling and struggling as she goes…<br/><br/>[Note that if you fancy to eat Timmy or to take over the character of the serving girl, or do either one of those things to one of Timmy’s herdmates that’s entirely fine…]<br/><br/><br/><br/><span style="font-size: 150%; line-height: 116%;"><span style="font-weight: bold">Christina Rumbletum</span></span><br/><br/>“M’r’ning,” I grumbled into my coffeecup and slurping the divine brew, a heady mix of half strong black coffee and half full-fat Jersey-cow milk. The cubicle-farm partition was velcroed with the name<span style="font-style: italic">J Barnhardt</span>, which at least told me I was in the right place. Last night’s raid had run into today’s early morning, and the drink was supplementing just a hair less than four hours fever-dreaming of<span style="font-style: italic">bosses that wouldn’t die</span>... unlike the poor pizzaboy. I’d<span style="font-style: italic">genuinely</span>intended to eat man-food, but he’d had the misfortune to knock on my door in the aftermath of a particularly messy defeat. I’d had a deliverydevour surcharge,<span style="font-style: italic">and</span>paid for a pizza that’d gone in the dumpster. I couldn’t deny that his struggles had soothed my frustrations, though, while they’d lasted. That’d been six or seven hours ago, and now he’d been reduced to a nutritious paste, all that remained an unmoving belly-bulge pushing up the hem of my tshirt and revealing a fair expanse of the midriff he was rounding out. Soon, it’d be time to dump him altogether and revert smoothly to my normal trim(ish) self.<br/><br/>“I’m heading out to BoiGrowWest Two,” I explained to… Jules… (for some reason, I was having trouble recalling his name, though I’d looked at the cubical-tag just a moment ago… probably tiredness). “Their VPN to corporate HQ is still down, or down again.” Ms Algulp had taken one look at my battered sneakers, long-since-faded jeans and<span style="font-style: italic">sudo su</span>t-shirt and assigned me to a site visit that<span style="font-style: italic">wouldn’t</span>embarrass SysTech at some corporate clients HQ - and I’d thought dressing as you will was the prerogative of wizards everywhere. “I understand you talked to them yesterday,” I continued. “Did you make any progress? Was it an IP problem? DCHP not enabled? Hardware or Software?” I smiled, as my tummy rumbled, informing me I’d soon need to dump the remains of last night’s unwilling passenger. “Router plugged in and turned on?”<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">Mental attack vs. Jules… if he can’t understand her questioning she might get <span style="font-style: italic">frustrated</span> and try to devour him</span>... Christina has the standard dice, plus one as this is a ‘geeky’ question, plus one as it uses her ‘science and technology’ skill:<br/>m<a class="postlink" href="http://orokos.com/roll/m-euanthe">http://orokos.com/roll/m-euanthe</a>m<br/>Christina gets a 4, a 2 and a 1. Thus her result is a 4. Consulting the table here:<br/>m<a class="postlink" href="http://1d4chan.org/wiki/Simple_D6_-_Third_Edition">http://1d4chan.org/wiki/Simple_D6_-_Third_Edition</a>m<br/>we see that rolling a 4 has ‘degree of success’ 2. Jules has Mental Defence 2, so takes no damage and does not lose a Mental Hit Point. Thus he has easily understood her questions.<br/><br/>Jules could now attempt to intelligently explain the problem by making Mental Attacks vs. Christina. Jules would get the standard 1 dice, plus 1 dice for the skill ‘science and tech’, plus 1 dice for his abilities in ‘reasonable discussion’. Alternatively, for example, Jules could attempt to flee in which case he’d be trying to outrun Christina and attacking her Physical Defence and Physical Hit Points. Or he could attempt to seduce her, in which case he’d be attacking her Sexual Defence and Sexual Hit Points… any one of these could have bonuses or penalties depending upon the situation.