Shalma's Destruction (Part I)

Shalma faces the trio of Goblins. You expect them to run away. You certainly wouldn’t blame them, especially after witnessing what she did to a dozen of their compatriots. Instead, after a moment’s hesitation, their leader releases a shrill wail and charges, maw gaping, his dagger poised above his head ready to mete revenge. His foot soldiers dutifully follow, their wails joining the chaotic cacophony.

Shalma looks spent. Her shoulders slump and her chest heaves. She holds the shaft of her giant broadsword loosely in her hands as its blade sags to the ground. It appears she lacks the strength to raise it.

You know better--the Goblins don’t.

As the leader leaps towards Shalma, she lifts her blade and aims it at his torso. Momentum does the rest. The leader’s eyes widen as the blade glides through his chest with a sickening slurp, emerging from his back in time to impale the second Goblin.

With a wild scream, Shalma hoists the broadsword and its occupants into the air. Their bodies slide down to the hilt, revealing the blade’s bloody tip just as the third goblin begins his descent. His arms and legs flail atop the skewer as Shalma thrusts it even further skyward. It reminds you of the acrobatic feats of strength you witnessed as a child during the springtime harvest festivals your parents took you to.

Minus the viscera, of course.

As Shalma balances the trio of troglodytes above her, her bare midriff shows tantalizingly beneath her leather bodice. You imagine how easy it would be to plunge your dagger deep inside her. Of course, your own death would quickly follow. Or not so quickly. Shalma’s followers are devoted, and cowardly killing their heroine would merit a slow and painful fate. No, your vengeance will have to wait.

Skasnell, one of those devoted followers, admires Shalma’s shish kebab. "Shall I fire up a spit?"

"Or maybe a bath?" queries Orpheus, the band's resident apothecary, holding his nose.

Shalma smiles beneath her cruel totem, drenched in blood, slobber, and entrails. "Later," she says, casting the dying creatures aside with a casual flick of her sword.

"First, we drink!"

The band of brigands erupts in loud cheers. Twenty-five strong, they’re a fearsome group. The blood on their swords and carnage at their feet bears ample evidence.

                                                        ***

That night, the troop rests inside the Goblin’s looted lair. The vacated brood’s animal skins, chiseled inscriptions, and crude finger paintings dance along the cave’s walls in the flickering firelight, haunting vestiges of an exterminated community.

“Who’s next?”

Shalma just dispatched Pug, one of her beefier disciples, in an arm-wrestling match that lasted all of two seconds. She sometimes toyed with her challengers, but Pug’s foul body odor (for which he took a great deal of pride) likely expedited his defeat.

Despite besting every man in the troop on numerous occasions, Shalma never had a shortage of challengers. A sore arm and damaged pride were but a pittance to pay for the opportunity to ogle her ample bosom and well-chiseled feminine features up close.

Tonight, however, men are groggy on grog and mindless on mead. A chorus of weary groans is the only response.

“How ‘bout you?”

You go rigid, but force a smile.

“I don’t think I’d be much challenge, M’lady.”

“M’lady?” Shalma scoffs. “There are no ladies here.” She cocks her head, and the soft blue eyes that belie the beast bore into you. “Or are there?”

Your face burns as hot as the campfire’s flames. Although you suspect the dim light hides its redness, you’re fearful the tightness in your throat may mute further protest (or worse, elicit shrill chirps amplified by the cave’s walls). Seeing no alternative, you stride to the opposite end of the small goblin table, kneel, and place your elbow on its rough-hewn surface.

“Let’s make this fair,” Shalma says, taking a tankard of mead in her left hand while grasping yours firmly in her right. Shalma occasionally guzzled mead, rum, wine, or whatever was available when wrestling clearly inferior opponents.

Apparently, you qualify.

Shalma’s capacity is legendary, undoubtedly a product of her Amazonian heritage. She towers above the men in the troop and is heavier than most. You guess her somewhere between 13-15 stone, but while the men are stocky and barrel-chested, Shalma is long and lean. The only softness on her figure’s well-honed sinew seems strategically placed to bedevil opponents in battle or beguile them during diplomacy.

But not you. Not tonight. Not ever.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Shalma says, bringing the mead to her full lips.

As she sips, you wrest her arm downward with all your might. It doesn’t move. You might as well be trying to bend steel.

All the while, Shalma slowly downs her drink. She belches as the last drop reaches her gullet. Then she smiles, winks, and throws you to the floor with a single motion of her arm.

Clucks and catcalls spew from the company as you lie there stunned. It’s not the impact that stuns you; however, it’s the view beneath the table. There, perched between Shalma’s tasset belt and cropped leather bodice, a roll of flab jiggles as she quaffs a victory brew. It’s almost unperceivable—indeed it seems to appear and disappear as she imbibes—but it’s there.

You’re so stupefied you smack your head on the table as you rise.

“Careful, M’lady,” Shalma says, as she polishes off the tankard. Fresh guffaws erupt from her minions.

Minutes ago, the heckling may have proved too much, leading you to do something foolish, but now you just smile and rub your head.

Revenge is a dish best-force-fed cold.

                                                           ***

After your defeat to Shalma, most retire to their bedrolls.  Minutes later, wheezy snores and flatulence fill the fetid air.  Fortunately, your position near the cave’s entrance spares you most of the stench.  

From your position, you watch Shalma’s rounded belly rise and fall with her breathing.  A back sleeper (to best avoid ambush) her stomach crests beyond her impressive breasts on inhale before retreating beneath them on exhale.  It’s mesmerizing. 

Its rhythmic pitch might have put you to sleep on an ordinary night, but the evening’s revelations have left you restless.  You imagine the swell of her stomach continuing further, her toned belly rising like dough from the inside, reaching a height far beyond her breasts before settling outwards, creeping across the cave floor as vast expanses of fat engulf her.

You turn away.  The vision, which would have seemed impossible just hours ago, was too powerful.  You’re not sure which extends further—Shalma’s belly in your mind, or the erection beneath your tunic.

Two other members of Shalma’s tribe remain awake.  Skasnell stands guard just outside the cave’s entrance.  While there are no official ranks, he would be considered second-in-command.  Bearded, buff and, at 6’ tall, one of the few men in the party who can look the massive matriarch in the eye without a boost, he barks orders during battles and handles much of the company’s daily management.  Though you haven’t witnessed it personally, rumor has it the harmony in which he works with Shalma extends beyond the battlefield.   Certainly, he gets away with lecherous comments and innuendo that would get anyone else run through.

The second is Orpheus, the company’s quirky apothecary.  It wasn’t uncommon to find the diminutive mole-like man muttering until the wee hours at the back of whatever cave, camp, or cabin the company found itself holed up in, as it afforded him the opportunity to play around with potions and tinctures undisturbed—at least until one of his experiments exploded or released a smell fowl enough to penetrate the already pungent party.  You’re not sure how such an oddball hooked up with Shalma, but his various elixirs and salves have proven invaluable in battle and the tending of wounds.

However, you don’t sense the same loyalty from Orpheus as you do Skasnell.  He’s teased relentlessly by Shalma’s troops (and occasionally by Shalma herself), and you’ve heard him grumble about a lack of respect.  Shalma affords him freedom and protection, but the alliance seems tenuous at best.

Since you can’t sleep, you decide to start plotting your revenge and possibly plant a few seeds of dissension in the process.  What do you do?

NOTA BENE: There is no right or wrong choice; however, your decision will impact themes and fetishy elements of the story moving forward.  Option A will focus on rising to power and overthrowing Shalma (and incorporate weight-gain subsets like domination/submission and role-reversal), while Option B will attempt to usurp Shalma’s power from within (and, therefore, include more subterfuge and magic-ish elements).