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It stung like hell. The wounds screamed--a result of the thorny whips the creature had used to thrash him about, nearly flaying flesh and fur from his bones. An azure ichor seeped from the foxcat's many lacerations, a product of the paternal half of his enigmatic lineage.

He knew little of the creatures, little of anything to be sure, though he was aware of the warning he'd received from the ealdorman of that quaint village he'd passed through not even a full day prior: to appease the guardians of the forest, one mustn't trespass through their fae-touched mushroom circles.

Perhaps he'd not noticed at the time? Carelessly treading through the woods, wandering from one settlement to the next. What an utterly stupid way to die, he thought. The attack had been so sudden, he'd scarcely had enough time to draw his blade before the misshapen thing had wrapped its leafy tendrils around him. As dire as it all had been, he still got away from it. That hardly seemed to matter now, however--he'd been wandering a while, losing what could've been a vital amount of his blood. He'd lost his bearings, not knowing which path through the moonlit wilderness would deliver him back to the safety of the village. And he was fading. Fast.

He crossed the threshold, his tired legs finally giving out under his weight. The foxcat slumped down, unable to persist. As the darkness of the night overtook him, one last thought emerged: Carla.

"Mother... I'm sorry. I'm sorry." The words came out softly. Feebly. He assumed they'd be his last as consciousness escaped him. Perhaps the wilderness had won.

Samson rose up sharply, still panicked from the night's ordeal. To his surprise, the environment had... changed? He was now in a wholly unfamiliar room--an arboreal abode of sorts. Was he in a tree? The walls, ceiling and floor were made entirely of a dense wood, decorated further with intricate carvings and vine lattices. He rested in a warm, comfortable bed with woolen sheets.

The strangest aspect of all was the fact that the grievous wounds from that horrid beast were gone. He was fully restored, a picture of perfect health! He could see clearly that his body was completely fine. He wondered where his armor had gone, ruined as it was. At the moment, he was clad only in his loincloth. He readied himself to leave the bed in order to explore his new surroundings when the single door that faced the bed opened without warning.

But what came next was perhaps the greatest surprise of all: the woman that stood in the bedroom's doorway was stunningly gorgeous. Every facet of her draconic figure surely must've been handcrafted with divine grace--her stupendously curvaceous form, painted with vibrant cerulean and indigo shades and marked further with occasional patches of purple speckles. Voluminous indigo locks, sparkling sapphire eyes... She was clad in a tight-fitting white dress, decorated with flowers and similar natural iconography.

Though he'd never personally met one of her kind, Samson knew exactly at that moment what she was: a Serulan. They were a semi-aquatic race of Draconians that primarily inhabited the islands of Serula to the extreme south of Balidan. He'd heard about them from fellow travelers on occasion, tales of warrior women that lived in the Garrenean sea.

"You can continue to gaze upon me, should it please you. It's only fair after all, I had ample time to examine you while you were in my care." The overly flirtatious sentiment was paired with a warm smile. Her melodic voice matched her angelic appearance quite well, he thought.

A blue blush struck his face as he was confronted with the revelation that he'd been simply staring at this woman for several minutes. "I'm... I'm sorry," he muttered, embarrassed by his disrespectful behavior. Even if she didn't seem to really care, he wanted to make some sort of positive impression.

"I promise you that it's quite alright. Can I sit next to you?" Samson's tail began to wag ever so slightly upon hearing her words. He tried to speak, but nothing left his mouth. Instead, he nodded in an approving fashion.

She gave another smile, walking over to him with her sultry gait. The Serulan seated herself right next to him, placing a hand on his back. The speed of the wagging increased in response, softly striking her with a steady tempo. She giggled, beginning to gently massage him. "You're a delightful one. Could I ask you your name? Mine is Samara, though you could simply call me Mara if you'd like." That dreadful night seemed so distant now, with her next to him. He wasn't sure exactly what he did to deserve her attention, much less her caregiving.

"Samson. My name is Samson." Her touch felt incredible against his azure and ivory fur. The further it went on, the more his thoughts crept toward outright salacity, the desire that arose from her mere presence alone.

"Samson? I like that name, it feels strong and hardy. Not entirely unlike yourself," she cooed. "I knew what caused your wounds the moment I saw you, I'm very surprised you survived the Treant's assault. Not many do, unfortunately."

That's right. Of course, he was reminded that she must've been the one that happened upon him in that dire moment--that he owed her his life. But before he could properly thank her for the serendipitous intervention, she distracted him with another question. "Oh! I'm very sorry. You must be absolutely starving, correct? I can make something for you if you'd like. Whatever you want."

Truth be told, he was quite hungry. He was also sure that she'd be able to make him a quality meal--something he'd lacked for some time. Only eating whatever you could get your hands on isn't something one can abide for long.

"Not really, not at the moment at least. I'm appreciative of your offer, though." He felt bad for lying, even if just a little fib. He enjoyed the warmth of the bed and her tender caress too much to abandon either in this moment--those two forces in tandem were irresistible.

"Can I touch you?" Samson asked, perhaps somewhat unwittingly. The words came out suddenly, as if it was without his permission. It was what he wanted, yes. But he was merely thinking aloud. He was afraid of some possible repercussions, some possible disapproval.

Though surprisingly, or perhaps unsurprisingly, her response was a quick and approving one. "You may." She ceased her gentle touch, moving her hand to a neutral position.

Though he knew exactly what his desires were at that moment, Samson was unsure how to proceed. Was she truly as accepting of him as she portrayed? Would he overstep some boundary? What was she thinking? Why was this all happening?

Eschewing all current doubts, he reached over, placing his hand firmly on her shoulder. Her flesh was soft... very soft and incredibly smooth. Not at all like the abrasive scales of other Draconians. Her body wasn't tense in the slightest, nor did she tremble. Most people were intimidated by Samson's large stature and exotic appearance, so this was very welcoming. It gave him enough confidence to continue to explore further.

He allowed his fingers to glide across her arm, back and forth in repetition. Following that, he reached for her waist, though Samara grabbed his wrist. Instead, she repositioned his hand upon her bosom. More specifically: the long set of laces binding the dress to her. Despite her utter lack of protestation, paired with her forwardness, he was still somewhat hesitant to proceed. There must've been something he was missing.

"What's wrong? Perhaps you need reassurance?" she said, placing her hand on his cheek. "I may not truly know you, but I know your heart. I know your strength. And... I'd like to know your passion as well. I want you. You are worthy, Samson."

The final remnants of hesitation were shattered in that moment. It felt right. Not just that, but she was practically on the verge of pleading for him to continue. He clumsily unfastened the laces, hurriedly attempting to reveal what lay underneath. Having undone the laces, he pulled the dress down to her waist, revealing her bare chest and stomach.

Samson's instincts took over fully, the foxcat taking hold of her enormous breasts. His blood was on fire, churning with such lustful energy. He could feel his burgeoning erection making its presence known. He proceeded to toy with her chest to his heart's content, poised to conquer her impossibly plump mounds.

In contrast, Samara was calm. Tranquil, even. She did little beyond providing her body at this moment, perfectly willing to let him do whatever he must. Soft moans emanated from her core, indicative of her pleasure.

After acquainting himself with their shape, weight, and feel, he gently pushed Samara onto her back, dragging his long, fat tongue across her left nipple. Learning her taste was important to him. She giggled and moaned aplenty. "Yes! I love that assertiveness! Feel free to do as you please~"

Next, Samson pressed his lips around her nipple, sucking gently. He took his time with this endeavor--wanting to savor it for their mutual satisfaction--before moving on to her other nipple. He was in complete bliss, having pressed himself against her soft, sensitive features. His manhood had already reached its peak rigidity, throbbing in anticipation.

As much as she enjoyed the sensation of his current oral exploits, she had to sate her own curiosity. "Samson. You've spent a great deal tasting what I've provided, without much consideration for my appetite. Any more, and I'll consider it to be greediness on your part," she jested.

He promptly ceased, obeying the request without the slightest hesitation. "I apologize. I was overeager," he murmured.

"No such thing, especially not at a time such as this. Now, rest on your back and close your eyes. Accept my affection, northman." Again, the foxcat abided quickly, laying fully on his back at her behest. With Samson in a preferable position, she hastily reached for his sex. Unveiling it was trivial, seeing as his loincloth had surrendered that fruitless battle long ago.

Samara audibly gasped as she saw its true length--what must've been at least a full twelve inches of engorged meat. Another peculiar aspect was the the penile barbs that lined his shaft, the edges of each barb appearing rounded enough as not to arouse fear of injury. The color was less surprising, given the rest of his odd coloration: a deep azure, not unlike his nose and pads.

She was awestruck. Completely enraptured by the sheer majesty of his endowment. Samara had felt the length resting against her, though failed to correctly anticipate its true nature. It had the presence of something that deserved to be cherished.

Once she regained her composure, the next action to undertake seemed abundantly clear: stuffing her snout in his groin. She inhaled deeply, desperate to take in his masculine scent. She let loose a loud moan, finding the musk to be very agreeable--an earthen aroma that appealed deeply to her terrene inclinations as a druidess.

After finding some deep satisfaction with his smell, she knew exactly what had to come next: Samara began by offering small licks across the shaft, giving the glans some kisses once she made her way to the top. Next, she graciously accepted his sex into her salivating maw, handling just the the first few inches for the moment. She had to properly gauge the taste and texture, after all.

The barbs hadn't been abrasive whatsoever as she initially feared, though they did tickle as they moved in lockstep with the fellating. She needed more of that precious length within her maw, needing to feel it slide down her gullet.

She took more in, feeling the throbbing phallus pass down her throat, nearly gagging as the barbs presented their peculiar stimulation.

Samara felt true happiness. Phalluses were a favorite of hers, especially those of the larger variety. He had met all of her requirements for proper enjoyment: taste, smell, texture, girth, and length. A cock worth savoring.

Samson's subtle moans were made more audible as she increased the intensity of deep-throating. She could feel the whole bed shift as he squirmed in response to her oral onslaught. Samara accepted this as a sign to stop for now, as she couldn't let the man empty himself just yet. So, she retreated from his sex, slowly releasing his slickened member from her throat.

While he was given a moment of respite, she took the opportunity to reposition herself. She was now lying opposite of him, her tail swaying playfully. "When you're finished laying around, I'd like you to prove yourself useful," she teased. "I need to feel the essence of your masculinity."

Their desires seemed to fully align--the primal urge to plow her into submission was more powerful than ever. The way her eyes pleaded with him was tantalizing in a manner that shouldn't have been possible.

"Very well." The succinct response was due mostly to his determination to continue, to make impulse into reality. Without further distraction, Samson maneuvered himself in front of her. He took hold of her thick legs, raising and spreading them simultaneously.

Sam would briefly poke and prod her sex before gaining purchase, easing his cock inside. She roared in approval, quick to address him. "Yes! Now, don't stop. Don't stop until I'm filled with your seed!" Simple enough, he thought. That was already his intention.

He began pumping, starting off gentle. It simply wasn't good enough, to be sure. The foxcat knew that his partner was sturdier than she looked, thus he had no qualms with being a bit rough. After another couple minutes of exploratory pumps, he increased his speed.

Samara's moans grew louder and more frequent, her claws grasping at the sheets in response to the stronger thrusts. "More, More!" she squealed.

He continued thrusting in accordance with her command, enamored with the way her inner walls firmly hugged his manhood with each pump. A caress that helped him find his rhythm, every thrust building toward that mutual satisfaction. As the minutes melted away, and both drew closer to the point of climax, Samara would grab Samson, digging her nails in as she pulled him even closer. The disruption forced him to change his approach slightly, finding a favorable position with her now fully pinned against the bed.

A bit more effort seemed to be enough as she succumbed to the throes of ecstasy. Her whole body seemed to tremble underneath him as she unleashed a cacophony of wailing moans. Samara gripped him tighter, her nails piercing his flesh.

Samson wouldn't last much longer, more than familiar with that sensation of impending release. Soon, several ropes of his thick, hot cum flooded her passage. He offered a few more thrusts afterward before ceasing entirely.

Samson withdrew from her, pulling his cock out from her aching orifice. He laid down beside her, a hand on his chest while he stared at the wooden ceiling. As his mind began to recuperate from the excitement, the curiosities surrounding this situation reemerged: Where was he? Who really was this woman? Why did she rescue him on that perilous night? Did any of that even matter?

His inner thoughts were then just as quickly dragged away, focus returning to the present moment as Samara embraced him. "Mmm. That was wonderful, darling. Thank you for lending yourself to me, even if it would only be for this day. Thank you." She spoke softly, using a hand to gently stroke his chest.

What? Only for today? The very thought of that possibility reminded him of the adversity these last four years had forced him to endure. The isolation brought forth by his exile was something he hadn't been prepared for, something he still very much struggled with. The fleeting moments of happiness were too few and far between. This time they had just shared together was too precious of a thing to surrender so easily.

"Actually, If it isn't too much trouble on your part... I'd like to stay with you awhile." Samson said the words heartily, despite the tears that formed in his eyes.

Upon hearing the words, and the conviction with which they were spoken, she stopped everything she'd been presently doing. "You'd really do that? Stay here... With me? In my quaint little home?" Her words confused him. Had he misinterpreted her intentions entirely?

"Of course! Samara, I want nothing more than being here with you now. Spending more time with you. I need you." The last words that came out of him were strangled somewhat, his voice breaking as tears began to stream down his face.

Seeing his emotional outpour would elicit a similar response from her, tears of her own falling from mist-laden eyes. "No! Do not cry! Everything will be alright, I promise! Please, let me make everything alright!" Her embrace would tighten, the Serulan nuzzling Sam with her snout to help calm him.

Her efforts would eventually bear fruit, as both would return to something more easily resembling the serenity she desired. Samson would break the silence first. "I'm sorry."

"About what?" she offered in response, rising from the spot where she'd been lying. "Nonsense. You've nothing to be sorry about. Now, I know you must be starving. And I refuse to let you decline this time. My cooking will do you some good, I think." She was correct. He wasn't really in any position to disagree, especially not after all of that physical exertion. "Alright, show me the way."

By the time the sun had fully dipped beyond the horizon, Samson had been bathed, fed, and given some new garments to substitute his set of northern attire--which had been ruined by his encounter with that Treant. Just a simple tunic and trousers, though that was leagues better than wearing bloody rags.

He was presently sitting at a balcony, leaning against the elegantly crafted railing. Just from the view alone he understood that he was still in Yrllarel, though was now much deeper within the great Aelynd forest. The gargantuan redwood trees that grew here were almost purely exclusive to this region. It would appear that Samara's home itself was built along the exterior of a redwood tree. Or perhaps it hadn't been built at all--more likely manifested from her mystical prowess. He knew by now that she must've been a Druidess: a forest mystic that was privy to the natural magicks. She had reminded him of the Dragehjerte's sages in Eyjasandr, as he was similarly impressed by her powers.

Not long after he merely began to think of her did she show herself. Samara promptly seated herself next to him, leaning against his pantherine frame. "I told you I wouldn't be gone long, Samson. I hope you weren't left disappointed with the prolonged absence." She was now clad in a dull pink dress, paired with a crown of flower petals atop her head.

"I'll be fine now that you've returned," he said with a grin. Though his smile would dissipate quickly as he thought of his future. She had intervened, after all. Death would likely not have rejected him if not for her timely arrival on that terrible night. He spoke his next words with a cautious optimism: "Samara. You gave me some time to think, and I feel as if I've properly gathered my thoughts. You saved my life. Though I still don't know why, my gratitude for your rescue, as well as the affection you've shown me, cannot be overstated. I won't let it go unspoken." He looked over to her, locking eyes with the druidess before continuing to share his feelings on the matter. "I owe you my life, Samara. Thus: I offer you my complete servitude until you would decide it would no longer be necessary. I would sacrifice everything, were you to think it's appropriate."

She simply sat, staring unblinkingly for some time before finally addressing his proposition.

"So, your desire is to be my own personal champion, is that it?" Her phrasing of it almost insulted him. His needs were surely a component, but he thought it was more like fulfilling a duty. Even if he was no longer considered a member of his clan, he'd follow that sacred edict. A life for a life. A life debt. "Very well, Samson. I accept your terms," she said with a warm smile. Her hand would extend to touch his thigh, grasping gently. "I apologize if you're abandoning some greater purpose by dedicating yourself to me in this way. I'll give you more time to consider it, if you'd like."

Sam's response would be swift, guided by his conviction. "No. This is what I have to do. It'd only be right, so I refuse to reconsider." Samara would giggle, embracing Sam.

"Okay, okay. I'm sure I'll find some way to make you useful. I look forward to it, in fact."

He liked the sound of that. Direction and companionship were both things he'd been sorely lacking. Both were things that were now accounted for, it seemed. For the first time since his mother's passing, Samson felt like the course his life was taking appeared favorable. Perhaps morning's light would shine a little brighter.