Serial Preview: Shalma's Destruction

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 their leader, after a moment’s hesitation, 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 the carnage at their feet bear 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.  Evidently, 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 takes a sip, 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.  As the last drop reaches her gullet, she lets out a huge belch.  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.

Nota Bena: "Shalma's Destruction" will be our exclusive new serial weight-gain adventure. As with its predecessor, "The Harem on the Hill," I will release installments every couple of weeks and each one will present the player with a series of important choices; however, this time EVERY patron will be able to participate! I'll explain more in our next State of the Patreon address. In the meantime, I hope you enjoyed this taste of the action to come!

Maverick