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Pathfinding: An Adult Choose Your Own Adventure

Ninteenth Entry

By Gideon Kalve Jarvis

Vote Tallies

Spark - 5

Ryg, Urtan, and Dinah - 6

Go through them all, end with Rufus - 2

Urta - 4

Rufus - 12

Sisters of Glory - 3

Author Notes

This set of votes really ran the gamut. After some careful consideration, I think I'll start with the group that got the lowest number of votes (the Sisters of Glory), and work my way to the one with the highest number of votes (Rufus), and leave out those that didn't get any votes at all (Praxis).

Pathfinding Ninteenth Entry

With a sharp cry as a large, rough paw slapped her naked backside, Kaia stumbled forward, just barely keeping herself from falling and likely taking Hanaro, shackled right behind her, down with her. Everything had just gone so wrong for her little band. First defeated by a mangy wolf and his vile companions. Then forced to suffer...indignities at the paws of the brutes that captured them. Then forced to jostle and squirm in the humiliation of being tossed over shoulders or, in the case of Phan and Zane, carried in a net on a pole, while squished together in a position that was more than compromising, all through the night. Finally, as everything seemed to just go wrong for their initial captors, a lean, dark shape had stepped into the little area where Kaia and her friends had been bound with their backs to the trees. Terrible green eyes had flashed, followed by a wicked grin full of too-sharp, gleaming white teeth, and the next moment, Kaia had been seized by the rough hands of more bestial humanoids, before she and her friends were dragged bodily from the clearing, and forced to march out into the full light of day, blushing furiously at the feeling of wind and sunlight on their naked skins.

Hanaro was already there, the long-haired fallen samurai standing with her head down, looking utterly ashamed as a grinning black stallion beastman, who seemed utterly unashamed of his nudity, exposing the white fur of not only his "horsefeathers" on wrists and ankles, but his pubic region as well, locked her neck into a collar, then threaded the collar's ring into the chain now holding all the slaves together in a coffle.

"No!" Kaia cried, struggling with all her might against the two hulking minotaurs holding her arms. Her struggles were all in vain, however, as the older bull, a brown-furred beast with flecks of grey in his fur and a nearly-white mane of headfur that he'd done in long braids, simply shoved her forward, sending the younger bull, a speckled red-and-white longhorn type, to help bring in the other Sisters of Glory, and then easily locked her into place in front of Hanaro.

"It's off to market for you little piggies!" laughed the jovial stallion, making Kaia wince in disgust as he stroked one large hand over her elfsmooth bare bottom, then squeezed it firmly. "Squealing the whole way."

After that, the whole day had been a grueling march, of which Kaia remembered almost nothing. Occasionally the elephant girl in front of her would look back with such sad, kind eyes, and Kaia found herself hating those pitying looks from someone that was, as far as she had ever been taught, worse than an animal. Judging from the red dot on her forehead (a bindi, Kaia remembered Hanaro telling her it was called), the elephant, hardly older than a calf herself, was probably from Bazram. That nation was well-known as a cultural meltingpot, and a den of iniquity and immortality besides. Kaia wished she were closer to the front, so at least then she could be nearer to her blue-skinned cousins, the ice elf triplets. Perhaps she could work out an escape plan with members of the civilized kin of the elves, making use of their obviously greater skill and intelligence. But the triplets were shackled right behind the big caged cart where the slaves were surely expected to sleep at night, to ensure they had no chance of escape. The very cart where they'd tossed the limp, lifeless-seeming body of the big grey wolfen that had first captured Kaia and her friends.

For all her thoughts of elven superiority, as the sun gradually settled from its apex down into the waning hours of evening, Kaia was forced to admit a certain flaw in elven physiology: they didn't have as much stamina as she would have liked. Daring a glance back, risking the lash of one of the cruel drivers on either side, She saw Hanaro's body was glistening in a sheen of sweat, just like Kaia's own, though she kept up a stoic façade on her face, while, just behind, Lysha's brown-capped breasts heaved with exertion. Phan, wanting to prove herself equal to her sister, had a similar expression of stoic resolve, even as her budding cleavage heaved even faster and harder than Lysha's, her pale-skinned body almost glowing with the exertions of the day. In the rear, Zane was faring the worst. The redheaded cleric had the most delicate skin of the five captive girls, and after a full day's march beneath the hot sun, her skin had been reddened by the heat as much as the exertion. Normally she handled such difficulties with a sun-blocking cream and by wearing a hooded cloak over her scant combat attire, but naked and taken suddenly as she was, the cream she'd applied the day before had almost worn off, and it was only a matter of time before she developed a bad sunburn. Worse yet, she was the least in shape of the Sisters of Glory, having put most of her efforts into tending their wounds and calling down the blessings of the gods of Light, and so she stumbled often, held up more than once only by the presence of the lean red foxboy in the rear.

It was Spark at the rear of the group, of course. Under other circumstances, he would have actually quite enjoyed his placement, since it gave him a prime view of the shapely bottoms of the girls in front of him. As it was, however, the poor bardic foxboy had been cruelly stripped of his clothes, then shackled roughly at the end of the coffle, then forced to march along with all the other slaves. He heard Praxis say something about how this helped to get his slaves into good shape, to build their endurance for their new lives, where endurance would surely be essential to their survival. Lucky for Spark, though, he'd already gotten used to the life of a wandering bard long past, and a long day's march, even in the unnatural positioning of a coffle, didn't faze him too much.

There was one quite useful point to being at the end of the line, and that was Spark's ability to look around him and see the state of the slavers' organization. While the other slaves in the coffle were forced to look straight ahead or else downward, lest they draw the attention of the slavers on either side and receive a slap to their bottoms or breasts or other parts that didn't show marks, but were both painful and humiliating, Spark was mostly unnoticed, and with his eyes and ears open, he learned quite a bit of information that might prove vital in the near future.

One of the most important bits of information that Spark learned was that there were only ten slavers left, besides the five gnolls led by Urta, a number that included their leader, Praxis. They seemed like more when you couldn't see past the line of the coffle, but the reality was quite a bit less intimidating. Judging from the idle chatter of the slavers who lingered near the back, the ruddy-speckled younger minotaur (who Spark learned was called "Longhorn" by his comrades), and the crafty raccoon (called "Mask," because of the wooden mask he used to change his appearance), Spark came to understand that, as the slavers had been nearing the lands owned by the Warlord, where Praxis intended to sell off his living wares, he'd decided it was a prime opportunity to kill off his excess mercenaries, the humans and ogres, so that he wouldn't have to pay them. Before he'd been locked into the coffle, Spark had even seen Praxis personally slit the throats of a few ogres after Rufus and the gnolls had killed off the majority of them, arrows from the woods having ended the lives of most of the human mercenary scum. Praxis, cunning devil that he was, had simply removed himself from the main body of slavers at a critical time, when an ambush would be most likely to succeed, and waited for Urta to keep him abreast of events so that he could arrange everything in perfect synchronization.

Keeping careful watch, Spark made sure to memorize the names and faces and general information about the other slavers. It wasn't like it was hard, as few of them as were left. Naturally, there was the terrifying Praxis, who ranged up and down the length of the slave coffle like a caged tiger, his green eyes burning with a hellish inner light. Spark did his best to avoid meeting that terrible green-eyed gaze, fearing almost constantly for his life. The demon panther wasn't quite mortal, of that Spark was fairly certain, though what exactly Praxis actually was, of that the young fox had no idea.

Besides Praxis, there were the two minotaurs, the younger red-and-white speckled male Longhorn, who seemed like a fairly nice guy who just had the bad sense to hang around with bad people, and the older bull Skaeth, a brutal-looking and grizzled warrior with long-braided grey locks dangling from his shaggy, brown-furred head. Of all the slavers, besides Praxis of course, Spark felt that Skaeth was the most dangerous, and his bronze armor and double-bladed axe were obviously for far more than show; the armor, incidentally, made Skaeth the most-dressed of the slavers, for it seemed standard for them to wear lighter armor, or no armor at all, as several of them were quite happy to strut around in loincloth and leather straps, and nothing else.

One of the worst offenders of showing off as much of his body as possible was the big black stallion Lightfoot Thunderhoof. Spark knew the name Thunderhoof, and knew they were a powerful tribe of equitra, or horsefolk, who roamed the wide grassy plains of the continent of Cargando to the west. Lightfoot seemed content to continue wearing his traditional tribal garb, which is to say next to nothing at all. Aside from a leather thong and a bandolier to hold his weapons and other gear, and a feather woven into his long white mane, in fact, Lightfoot didn't seem to care one fig about how his dangly bits bounced as he trotted along, lewdly ogling the captives with even less shame.

Then there were the ones who seemed to have been with Praxis for a while now, somehow surviving any past betrayals like the one that had wiped out his ogre and humans minions. There were four of these, but one, Crystal, was more of an automaton than a person, exactly, so Spark wasn't sure if she counted. Crystal was just what her name suggested: a beautiful female figure carved from smoothly animated living crystal, with magically-enhanced durability. She seemed to be completely loyal to Praxis, obeying his least command without question, her face never once showing any more emotion than a stone. Similarly mysterious to Spark was Kyte, a tall and slender, but quite muscular, green dragonfolk with a yellow underbelly. The dragon, however, was mysterious to Spark not because of his lack of emotions, like Crystal, but because he spent most of his time ranging either in front of or behind the group, scouting out the terrain with a longbow slung over his back. The other two rogues who worked for Praxis were Mask, the smartmouthed, shapeshifting raccoon, and Lisk, a lean, wiry, red-furred nycter, or batfolk, who Spark got the impression had been cast out by his people for some unspeakable crime.

That left the two other mercenaries, neither of whom seemed all that happy with their jobs, but who seemed determined to see them out to the end. The one who was easier on the eyes for Spark was Shara, a foxtaur vixen wearing green-plated armor on her humanoid top half. She wasn't really that tall, despite being a tauroid, and was only just a bit taller than Spark himself. The slim vixen seemed to be a flesh mage of some sort, and had been hired on as the healer, which Spark discovered when she trotted alongside Zane, the redheaded girl right in front of him, and whispered a few words while stroking her black-furred hand over the naked human's shoulders, immediately dispelling the redness of the sunburn the poor girl had been developing. Goro, meanwhile, was another hulking lump of hired muscle, a brawny and boisterous pandaman wearing a wide-bodied metal belly warmer to protect his significant girth, but little else. Despite being a big guy, actually, Spark found the cheerful and talkative panda to be likable and even cute, in a chubby way. It was really too bad he was on the wrong side...

"Head down," growled Urta, walking up alongside Spark and pushing his head downward with surprising gentleness. "We're almost ready to stop for the night, and you don't wanna be caught looking around." She curled her lip as Spark started to open his mouth, discouraging him without words from asking any of the many questions that came to his lips. "Praxis has his eyes on your rump, foxboy," the hyenafemme warned, looking away, her expression wistful. "You'd better get yourself mentally ready for it, 'cause Praxis always gets what he wants, eventually. Just relax and obey, and he probably won't hurt you too bad."

Suddenly, a horn blew from the front of the slave train, and Urta gave Spark an astonishingly gentle pat on the back before she headed off to help with preparing the camp for the night. Her news wasn't good, but Spark had been kind of expecting something like this to happen. Just...it was Praxis who was going to be the one to do the raping. Spark couldn't repress a shudder or a soft whimper, knowing he wasn't going to be able to relax with the demon cat touching his naked fur and flesh.

*

Why'd that wolf have to be such a stupid male? Urta sat by herself at the edge of camp, ostensibly on guard duty, but really, she just didn't want to watch the slave training. In times past, when life had been a lot simpler, Urta had always enjoyed Praxis' policy of preparing his slaves for service in the harems of the rich and powerful and unscrupulous. It made good sense, too. After all, a typical virgin didn't know anything about sex, and yet most of those who collected harems wanted choice, guaranteed virgins who could satisfy them in bed. Nonsense, of course, or so Urta had initially thought, years back, when she'd first started to work for Praxis, and her brother had first left her to head into the wilderness. Then Praxis had shown her how a virgin could be trained to be skilled in sex as well, and she never doubted him again. Quite the opposite, she let him be the one to take her virginity, and he was still one of the best lovers she'd ever had.

Rufus was a close second, but Urta didn't feel quite so...dirty, after she'd had sex with Rufus. She felt more free than she'd ever felt before, a feeling that had surprised her. After all, she'd been free, hadn't she? Her own female, in charge of her own little band, with enough food, enough shelter, enough bed partners when she wanted them. What more could she ask for? But Rufus actually wanted to make the world a better place, in his own way, and, for a while at least, Urta had been helping him to do it. It was a doomed effort, of course, no chance of success, and Urta knew it. She'd known it from the beginning, and had known that Praxis would have found some way to hunt her down if she hadn't done as he asked, her and her tribe and Rufus as well. Praxis had that kind of power, after all, that kind of fiendish cunning, and if he hadn't done it himself, he'd have guided the forces of the Warlord to do it for him.

No, there was no sense crying over the past. Urta gently caressed her belly, imagining she could feel the life she knew was growing inside of her. She'd never allowed Praxis to get her pregnant, but Rufus had done just that, and now Urta had to think about preparations for the baby that was on the way. Could she live always on the run from the Warlord and from Praxis? She certainly could not, she decided quickly. No, what she'd done was right; it had to be. But why did it hurt so badly?

Urta half-turned at the faint sound of someone approaching, but relaxed when she saw it was Greymuzzle. The older male was the most loyal of her little pack, and the one who was most obedient, with the least personal ambition. He was also the most king-hearted, a strange thing for a gnoll, especially one that had lived as long as Greymuzzle, and Urta suspected he was the one that had encouraged her brother to leave after he'd argued with her over their relationship with Praxis. The older male paused a moment, gauging his leader's mood, before he walked over and sat next to her.

"Speak," Urta growled out, sounding more harsh than she'd intended.

"I've talked to the others," Greymuzzle said, getting straight to the point, as was his habit. "Nobody's in the circle with Praxis and his servants. We all didn't feel like joining them for the slave training."

This surprised Urta. While Greymuzzle usually opted out of Praxis' slave training rituals, One-Eye and Horse were quite happy to join in, and Rish and Rack were eager enough more often than not, as long as things didn't get too rough. She looked at him curiously, then motioned with her muzzle for him to go on, knowing that he'd tell her the truth, whether she wanted to hear it or not.

"We did something wrong today," said Greymuzzle, his face solemn. "What we've done, we can't undo. We've betrayed someone who might have led us to a different path, a better one, one that would lead us to something more than being the lackeys of a slaver."

"If we hadn't done what we did, we'd all be dead!" spat out Urta, as though the words were an ill taste in her mouth. "I...I've got a baby to think of now, as well as a tribe. I can't just..." She trailed off, looking away from Greymuzzle, feeling the insides of her ears burning with shame. Greymuzzle didn't respond, just sitting there, his eyes searching the darkness before them, as though it would reveal the secrets for how to escape their predicament. He'd said only what he'd meant to say, and had nothing else to add. He wasn't leader, Urta was, and now that he'd spoken his peace, he'd let her decide what to do with what had been said, if anything.

"Leave me," Urta said, the words surprisingly gentle, without the harsh bark of an order. Greymuzzle nodded and did just that, standing and stepping off into the darkness. "I can't make this decision alone," she said finally, before standing, and starting back toward the camp, and the darkened wagons around its perimeter.

*

Bonfires stood out quite well against the darkness of the late spring night, making it easy to locate the camp of the slavers. Urtan had been in the lead, his skilled nose finding the way even when the path of the slavers and their prisoners had been obscured, thanks to the efforts of the master tracker, the green-scaled dragonman, who traveled with them. His efforts, as well as those of Praxis himself, who showed astonishing wilderness lore, had nearly thrown Urtan several times. However, his skills, coupled with occasional bits of guidance from Ryg's mysterious second sight, had kept them behind the slavers ever since they'd dared to emerge from their hiding place, long hours past.

Dinah was nearly exhausted at that point, having put all her energy into leading Ryg whether the blind she-wolfen needed it or not. Made for bursts of speed rather than lingering, consistent effort, as with a forced march, Dinah had a terrible time, and more than once Urtan had scooped up the little catgirl and carried her on his shoulders, giving her time to rest before she'd be off again, doing all she could to be useful in this time when she felt most helpless. She wasn't the only one, and Urtan frowned to himself as he left Ryg and Dinah at their cold camp about a mile from the slaver camp, and crept through the underbrush to spy on them. All the time they'd traveled, they'd never run into Cassidy once, and Urtan burned to know if the rabbit was dead or captured. If he wasn't captured, at least, then perhaps there was some hope left. Besides this critical point of information, of course, Urtan knew he'd have to attempt to defeat Praxis and his slavers, somehow. How, he really didn't know, but perhaps he would see a way when he could see the camp up close.

Then Urtan saw what was taking place around the bonfire in the middle of the camp, and froze, his eyes wide in shock. There, in a prominent position before the fire, stood the terrible black panther himself, his too-sharp teeth clearly visible as the firelight glistened off his naked black-furred body. Slumped before him was the redheaded cleric girl who'd been with the Sisters of Glory, a gag in her mouth, , her wrists bound behind her back, her eyes looking especially large behind their glasses as she looked up from her humiliating position on the ground with her bottom thrust upward, her head pressed to the ground by one of Praxis' footpaws, one cheek against the tamped-down grass as she half-turned her head to look pleadingly up at her wicked feline captor. The poor girl's body glistened with some sort of oil, and Urtan could see Praxis handing the bottle of the stuff to a girl who seemed to be made out of glass, despite being fully animate.

"You see how even the pussy of a holy cleric of the Sisters of Glory grows swollen and moist at the touch of the passion oil," Praxis was saying to the slavers gathered around him in a semicircle, one large hand reaching down to firmly grasp her upturned pink bottom, spreading her cheeks apart while the poor girl cried out loudly into her gag at such rude treatment. "If she didn't have her maidenhead still, we'd all take turns shafting her soundly until she couldn't worship anything except cock. All the same, the principle remains," and here Praxis chuckled, the sound horrible to the ears, the fingers of his other hand reaching down into the cleft between the helpless redhead's legs, making her squeeze her eyes tightly shut as he worked them against her dewy folds, then pulled them away glistening with her juices. "Religious slaves-in-training make some of the best true slaves. All it requires is to show them that they are completely at the mercy of their captors, that the gods will not save them, and that they are utterly doomed. Once they've been made to see this truth, preferably through multiple forced orgasms, then they tend to become remarkably fast learners, putting all the devotion they once showed for the gods into their new vocation."

His searing green eyes swept over the other four Sisters of Radiance kneeling nearby, held firmly in place by the more burly slavers, all the while continuing to work his fingers into the helpless redhead's cunny. None of the four could tear their eyes from the scene of horror before them, and as Zane's moans grew steadily louder and louder, Phan leaned into her sister's side, whimpering fearfully through her gag, tears running down her cheeks. Suddenly, Praxis picked up the pace of his finger-frigging, and in a matter of moments, poor Zane was crying out loudly, the orgasmic scream only barely muffled by her gag. Letting his demonstration victim slump forward in shame and unwanted post-orgasmic flush, Praxis motioned to Phan with his other hand, all while licking the hand messy with Zane's juices clean.

"Mask, you know your duty well enough," he said casually. "You and Lisk get to work on the little one. Be especially careful not to break her hymen, or it comes out of your share of the profits."

"Oh boy," laughed the raccoon eagerly, rubbing his hands as he walked toward Phan, who cried out loudly into her gag in fright. Hanaro tried to thrust herself forward, to interpose her body between the approaching raccoon and her sister, but she was held back by the massive grey-haired minotaur, who jerked her back by her long hair, caught in one of his huge fists.

In moments, Phan was flat on her back before the fire, her skinny legs desperately kicking as her thighs were slowly parted by the slender ruddy-furred bat, while Mask greedily slurped and sucked on her small breasts until they were slick with his saliva. Ignoring Phan's struggles, the two uncorked bottles of the oil Praxis had used before, and began liberally rubbing it all over the poor wizardling's body, before both males thrust their muzzles between her legs, soon bringing especially loud, desperate squeals from the doomed teenager as she was savagely brought to orgasm after unwilling orgasm.

"See to the rest, Kyte," said Praxis in his oil-smooth voice as he stalked from the fire toward a tent post erected nearby. "I have further business."

Urtan's breath caught as he saw Spark there, bound to the tent post, with two other boys right next to him. One was another, much smaller fox, just barely out of cubhood, his fur a sunset orange as opposed to Spark's bright red. The other was a blue-furred bunny with long floppy ears. The two males both wore goggles on their heads, and looked up pitifully at Praxis, and pityingly at Spark as the wicked panther seized the slender male and dragged him away from the tent post to which he'd been bound.

"Unlike females," Praxis continued, "there is little visible evidence to mark a virgin male. Both, meanwhile, benefit from being shown how to orgasm; the more they have, the easier a time they have enjoying more of them, all the while becoming more submissive with each shudder of pleasure to shake their wills as much as their bodies, until they become perfect and well-trained little submissives. And a slave that can cum on demand is truly prized, especially when being taken...roughly."

*

Spark struggled at Praxis' words, whimpering and tugging desperately against the iron grip of the cord-muscled male as he was dragged forward, his wrists twisting against the bonds binding them tightly. Seating himself on a sealed water barrel, Praxis easily forced the poor fox to his knees before the cruel male, his muzzle only inches from the panther's uncircumcised black cock.

Under other circumstances, Spark would have been in awe of a male like Praxis. The panther's whole body was gorgeous, a study in physical perfection, sleek and perfectly-groomed fur seeming to only barely cover the tightly-corded predator's muscle beneath. Even the feline's penis was a work of art, smooth and glistening like the shaft of a statue at full erection, and the look of it was actually mesmerizing if Spark spent too long looking at it.

"No," Spark begged desperately as he felt Praxis' hand grip his headfur, forcing him forward. "Please, don't make me-mmmf!"

With a choked sob, Spark's muzzle was forced down onto Praxis' penis. After the initial thrust, however, Spark was surprised to find that Praxis didn't just rape his face, but instead let his heavy, seeping member sit there on Spark's long, smooth tongue. Looking up curiously at Praxis, Spark met those horrible, gleaming green eyes for only a moment before he looked away, not daring to see what lay in those terrible depths. He felt the steel-tipped edges of Praxis' claws on his head and neck, though, and knew that terrible tortures awaited him if he didn't perform. With a stifled sob, Spark began to slowly bob his head, feeling the panther's glans prod him in the back of his throat every few thrusts. As he pulled himself almost off Praxis' shaft, Spark swirled his agile tongue around the very tip of the dominant male's cock, feeling the little barbs hidden just beneath the foreskin. They were sharp! Spark's eyes widened a bit in fear as he encountered this unexpected feature, as all the felines he'd known before that had barbs were more rubbery. Those barbs had just added to his stimulation. These, though...they were going to hurt! Choking back sobs, Spark did his best to pleasure his cruel master, his eyes growing bleary with tears of fearful anticipation. Bittersweet saffron filled his muzzle as he tasted Praxis' precum, and poor Spark soon closed his eyes once more, knowing that he would be crying in full.

Sparl's fears were confirmed as he felt Praxis jerk the poor fox's head back, forcing him to look up into Praxis' face. The panther's expression...it would haunt Spark's nightmares for the rest of his life! Babbling now, desperately wriggling, Spark kicked his legs frantically as he was lifted up, facing away from Praxis, the panther's steel claws digging into the undersides of his thighs. The poor foxboy's voice was rising in pitch now, his tail unable to cover himself as it was pinned against Praxis' stomach, the doomed young male pleading until he was incoherent, the heart-shaped curve of his bottom thrusting slowly downward toward the upthrust black shaft waiting to violate his helpless body. Spark dared to look down, his eyes growing wide in terror as he saw those cruel barbs standing out like iron spikes. With a final, pleading wail, then, Spark felt the swollen black tip of Praxis' glistening member press against his tender tailhole...and then sink inside.

*

In the underbrush, Urtan watched with horrified fascination as Praxis, grinning like a maniac with those too-sharp teeth, began to vigorously bounce poor little Spark on his lap. At first all Spark would do was squeal and cry like a puppy being paddled, his feet and ankles kicking despite the firm grip on his thighs. Then, slowly, he seemed to grow numb to the pain of penetration, and gradually his pink penis peeked out from his sheath, and slowly grew to full erection. Laughing with wicked glee, Praxis wrapped one arm around Spark beneath his knees, pinning the foxboy's legs to his chest, while with the other he grabbed Spark's cock and started to pump the boy's slender shaft as he continued to stretch his victim's tailhole so widely, Spark's poor tender tailhole had lost all its articulation, becoming as tightly-tensed as one of his mandolin strings.

Releasing Spark's cock for the moment, Praxis shifted his grip instead to the boy's hips, and started to bounce the helpless male up and down, making his foxy cock bounce and bob as well, droplets of precum arching outward. Spark's face was one of total torment, pleasure and pain so blended together in his mind and body that he couldn't tell the difference between the two anymore. He begged piteously in his sweet, musical voice for Praxis to spare him, but the sound of the poor fox's voice just seemed to inflame Praxis' lust all the more as he began to cruelly shaft the doomed little foxboy, making Spark yelp loudly with each hard impact of black-furred hips against white-furred undertail.

Suddenly, with a loud yelp, Spark came, his expression one of shock and despair as his cock spasmed, jetting thick white foxcream onto the ground by the fire. The yelp turned into a wail as Praxis gave a short, brutal grunt of peaked pleasure, then forced Spark all the way down on his throbbing member, grinding his hips against the squirming foxboy's smooth, soft-furred bottom. Then, with another short grunt, Praxis jerked Spark up and off his still-spurting cock, shoving the limp fox to the ground, then standing over the well-raped male, jerking off the rest of his orgasm onto Spark's pretty face as he lay on his side, leaking cum from his well-raped tailhole. Marking him. Staining him.

Spark's tear-filled eyes lifted to meet those of the two boys bound like he had been, their sympathy for his plight the only thing that kept him from losing hope completely, before his eyes squeezed shut. He wasn't allowed to escape into the oblivion of sleep, however, as his eyes jerked open with a start, feeling the rough hands of the hulking minotaur, Skaeth, on his body.

"Not again," whimpered the poor foxboy as he was dragged toward the waiting bullcock.

*

Cassidy crept up silently on the caged-in wagon, glancing around to make sure he hadn't been detected. The slavers were pretty confident now that they thought they'd taken out the only group that was hunting them, and had only posted the gnolls as guards. Of course Cassidy could sneak past gnolls - he'd done that even before he'd been an adventurer. Gnolls had pretty keen senses of smell, and their hearing was pretty good, but they were always getting caught up in their own thoughts, or growing bored and lazy, so if you took their innate abilities into account, it wasn't that hard to get past them. Not as easy as with orcs or ogres, sure, but still not that hard.

Quiet as the night itself, the tan-furred bunny made quick work of the lock on the wagon, but just as he was about to open the door, he heard the sounds of someone approaching, and pressed the wagon door shut, so it looked as though it were still locked, before ducking out of sight.

It was Urta.

The she-hyena walked up to the barred wagon, and rested her head against the cold steel wearily.

"Why'd you have to try'n be a good guy?" she said, her words almost a sob in the darkness. "Why couldn't you've been somebody mean and nasty, like I thought you were at first? I mean, you're all mean and tough and savage. You're like some wild animal! In a fight or in bed, you're so hot to watch, and I just can't get enough...but why'd you have to fight against the Warlord...against Praxis?" She turned away, her back to the wagon cage as she rested against it, then sank down to huddle at the base of one of its broad, solid wheels. "I just want a simple life, Rufus," she sobbed quietly. "I just want somebody to help me and hold me, and not get mad at me when I make mistakes. I've made a big mistake now, and I don't know what to do any more. Everything was so simple before I met you. I thought I knew everything I'd ever need to know, thought I knew just what I wanted out of life. But now..."

With a choked sob, Urta's face sank into her hands. Cassidy didn't dare breathe in that long moment, not knowing if he'd be noticed, knowing all too well how flimsy his hiding place was, and how dangerous Urta could be. Then, his eyes widening in surprise, Cassidy saw a familiar large, grey-furred hand reach out between the bars of the cage, and rest gently on Urta's shoulder.

"You want a simple life, Urta?" said Rufus in a softly-growled whisper, choked out through cracked and dry lips. "There's nothing simpler than doing the right thing."

Path Choices

Turns out Urta learned how to use that paralysis drug she got from the Blue Feather wolfen quite well; she simply couldn't bring herself to kill Rufus. But what do we do next? Many of these choices can be stacked. Each action's success is decided by a separate roll. Some choices are mutually exclusive.

A) Win over Urta and the gnolls back to our side. (75% - adds 5% to all attack options below)

B) Get out of camp and hook up with Urtan, Ryg, and Dinah, without being noticed. (65% - adds 5% to all attack options below, from coordinated efforts)

C) Steal weapons and other gear from the slaver's caravan without being detected. (65% - adds 5% to all attack options below, but subtracts 5% from the stealth chance of option B)

D) Let the slavers finish their slave training, then attack when they've exhausted themselves. (75% but the prisoners will be raped in the meantime)

E) Attack the slavers now! (65%)

F) Take the slavers alive. (-8% from the attack options above, since there are a lot of slavers, and many of them are quite skilled; this is an all-or-none option.)