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Pathfinding: An Adult Choose Your Own Adventure

Ninety-first Entry

By Gideon Kalve Jarvis

Vote Tallies

Our Path of Action:

The Path of Blood - 2

The Path of Words - 5

The Path of the Hidden Dagger - 18

The Path of the Prisoner - 2

Person getting nailed:

Praxis - 18

Skaeth - 3

Belthin - 1

Nobody - 0

Somebody Else - 0

Author Notes

Don't forget: we have a flat 55% chance of success, rolled three times, to determine our success. The best two out of three determines the end result, whether in our favor, or as a "Bad Ending."

Since there was a strong desire to see the Warlord potentially spared or captured, if possible, if we do manage to succeed in our aims, I will leave her end fate to a vote, rather than simply ending her life.

If we succeed.

Pathfinding Ninety-first Entry

Even ungagged, Praxis didn't make a sound. Not like her squirming fox demons, squealing and wailing loudly as they came, again and again and again. For Urta, letting her gnolls work off a little steam with the tight-bottomed immortals wasn't enough. No, not anywhere near enough. For the proper treatment of your enemies, in the way she wanted to see, you needed at least a dozen aides.

Fortunately for Urta, she had a pack of wolfen at her disposal.

"Almost..." murmured Ryg softly, gently caressing her hands over Praxis' stomach. "There's...resistance here. It's very dark magic. Necromancy."

"Heh, death in her belly, eh?" chuckled Urta as she reached over, pinching a shiny, obsidian-black nipple. As before, Praxis didn't make any response to this action, except to glare at Urta with those eerie, luminous green eyes, the only color on her entire midnight ink body.

"Very literally so," Ryg agreed, her brow creasing a little with concentration. "You've done some evil things in your life, cat. I don't know much about you, and what little I can tell from your aura, I don't want to know the rest. Urta might be doing this for revenge, but I'm not." A soft blue glow spread out from her hands, even as an answering angry, pulsating indigo glow rose from Praxis' stomach. "I'm here to help you start to make amends for the evil you've committed, and the lives you've ruined. To even begin to correct crimes like yours, you'll have to start with giving life to a world where you've only taken."

"You might force a brat or two from between my legs," Praxis purred softly, her voice like razored silk, "but you'll never make me change. I am as I've always meant myself to be. Nothing more, and nothing less."

"Perhaps," Ryg allowed, even as the light, silvery blue began to push aside the writhing dark light Ryg's magic had uncovered within Praxis, then began to spread through her stomach. "All the same, I think you should have a chance. It's only fair, to the rest of the world, if not to you."

As the indigo dark inside her was washed away, Praxis' body arched in the rope harness holding her suspended, face-down, her limbs spread out. The wicked panthercat bared her too-sharp fangs, her eyes blazing with hellish inner light.

"You'll pay for this," she promised, her voice just as soft and lethal as before. "I promise you: you will pay."

"I'd have thought you'd learned your lesson," laughed Urta, stroking her strong, calloused hand down Praxis' back, then over her supple bottom, and finally into the ink-black cleft of her cunny. "If you'd cut your losses and left, you wouldn't be where you are. We were all too busy to pay much attention to you, since you weren't part of our quest. Rufus would have forgotten about you completely, I'm sure: he's going to have a lot of responsibilities when this is all over, too many to pay attention to a specialty slaver like you. As for me, I'd be his prime mate, and since I know Adel isn't going to stick around - she's got too much she's got to do in her home country - I'd be an alpha female around here. _The_alpha female, actually. But no, you had to come back and cause trouble." Urta's grin was sharp-toothed and eager as she began to feel moisture flowing onto her stroking, caressing fingers, the immediate result of her too-skilled fingers and the heat Ryg had started flaring in Praxis' womb. "I can't say I'm sorry, though: I've been looking forward to nailing you for a good, long time now. Spotty goddesses of night, I've wanted your tight buns back when you were a male!"

"Of course you did, you spotty slut," growled Praxis with a sneer. "Your own rump sags so much, it's no wonder you'd envy anyone with a body worth looking at. And now I've got better breasts than you...and getting me pregnant will just make them better!"

Immediately, Urta's face darkened, and her hand snapped up, ready to come down hard against Praxis' cheek - her pride in her appearance was great, as it was for many gnollish women, and to insult her looks was tantamount to declaring a blood feud. But Urtan, her brother, was there, stepping from the shadows of the tent, and he caught her wrist before she could land the blow. For a moment, Urta struggled, her might against her broad-shouldered brother's. Then, letting out a long breath, she relaxed a little, giving a short nod, the signal for Urtan to release her.

"If you could," she growled softly, crouching slightly, so she could lean close to Praxis' ear, "you'd goad me into killing you. You'd rather die than live as a slave. Ironic, isn't it?"

"For me," Praxis hissed, the words almost a whisper, "death is just another beginning."

"What about life?" Urta answered, before kissing Praxis' cheek.

Eyes widening at the question, Praxis seemed taken aback, at a loss for words. Obviously, the thought had never really occurred to her: what would happen to her if she was forced to...live?

"No," she hissed, her gleaming eyes following the gnollish siblings as they closed in on her.

Baring her razored fangs, her claws extending helplessly as she tensed in the rope web holding her fast, Praxis glared death and daggers at the two gnolls as they began to stroke their large, strong hands over her naked body. Despite all her thrashing, and the harsh, rasping words she flung like weapons, Urtan was unmoved from his purposes, and so long as Urtan stayed in control of his emotions, Urta kept hers in check as well.

And those hands...the siblings had learned much from their time with Rufus. They knew exactly how to touch someone, even someone unwilling, to bring them pleasure. Certainly, Praxis knew similar tricks, the ravishing pleasure of a slaver seeking to break a prisoner, to destroy the will and crush the spirit, using pleasure as just another sort of torture. For Rufus, and for the gnolls who loved him, however, pleasure was a way to bring about change - change that turned enemies into friends.

When Urta and Urtan closed their muzzles around Praxis' trim, flawless night-furred breasts, their muzzles suckling and slurping loudly, wetly, messily on her dimpled aureoles until her nipples were stiff enough to cut glass, the wicked panthercat finally yowled!

"No!" she screeched, thrashing against her bonds. "No! You can't do this to me! I'll never change! I'll never give in! I'll gut you! I'll flay the flesh from your skulls! Demons take you, I'll make you hurt so bad, screaming won't even begin to convey your agony!"

Then Urtan's so-gentle hand closed on Praxis' glistening pudenda, and Praxis' many threats turned into a single long, loud caterwaul. The cries of the demoncat warbled and ululated as both siblings turned their muzzles onto their captive's most delicate places, their tongues lashing out, slurping and suckling and nibbling in ways that were maddening in the extreme. Never before had Praxis been in heat - the dark pacts she'd forged with creatures and powers best unnamed had rendered her immune to such indignities. Now, however...now, she was forced to endure the full, flushing rush of a force of nature she couldn't even begin to understand, an instinctual, desperate need that flared inside her with a heat worse than the hellfire from which she'd escaped time and time again.

Before the panthercat could even start to rally her will against the erotic depredations of the gnollish siblings, Urtan's tongue thrust inside Praxis' clenching black cunny, followed a moment later by Urta's tongue. As brother and sister stroked their tongues against each other inside Praxis' innermost depths, sharing a kiss made all the more intimate by the tight confines of the she-demon's clenching inner walls, Praxis yowled like the cat in heat she was, her whole body tense, glistening breasts thrust outward, mouth and blazing open wide as she screamed in orgasm.

After the first orgasm, there was no holding back the floodwaters. Gyrating, jerking, thrashing in her bonds, tossing back and forth like a ship in a storm-riven sea, Praxis wasn't sure of her actions anymore, her mind turning into a red-tinged blank as the pleasure shocked through her with all the force of a thunderstroke. This couldn't be happening! She couldn't be left at the mercy of these...these...pathetic...worthless...cowering...skilled...attractive...magnificent beasts!

"NOOOOOO!"

Juices gushed out onto the tongues of the gnolls in a torrent, lapped up almost immediately not only by the siblings, but by One-eye, Horse, Greymuzzle, and the twins, Rish and Rack. Somewhere in the background, the demon foxes were still squealing in orgasmic torment, though the squeals were muffled by thick wolfen cocks plugging their slim red-black muzzles. Mortals, as they were learning far too late, could prove to be more lusty than even sex-driven creatures like them had expected.

Before Praxis could even stop spurting girl-cum, Urtan squeezed his thick erection into her with a single, smooth thrust. The panthercat didn't even try to hold back the loud wail this first thrust brought, nor the wail that came as Urta added her faux-cock just above her brother's, piercing the tense black rose of the panthercat's tailhole. Rough gnollish hands were all over her as the siblings mated her, pumping the squirming panthercat full of throbbing hyenameat, filling her to the brim again, and again, and again.

It was too much!

"AAAAIIIIIIEEEEEEE!"

She was the terror of villages everywhere! The lurking nightmare of every lovely virgin from the Red City to the Iron Empire! That she could be so dominated, so violated with _pleasure_by mere gnolls, creatures lower than even the hyenas they most resembled...it was more than Praxis could bear.

The very thought of such a violation - and, worse yet, that she might enjoy it - was enough to make Praxis cum again. Hard.

Spots still flaring in front of her eyes, there was no way for Praxis to keep her inner walls from rippling around the invading male member in her slick sex as she felt Urtan's balls tighten, and knew what was about to happen.

"This cannot be!"

But it was.

_Grunting_softly, leaning close to his sister's ear, reaching around to caress Urta's breasts, even as the she-gnoll's body tensed up in the throes of her own series of orgasms, Urtan didn't hold back anything as he came. Grinding his hips, his soft brown eyes narrow slits, the broad-shouldered gnoll made sure to squeeze out every last drop of sperm-rich semen, while her inner walls milked him with instinctive fervor, ensuring not a drop was wasted.

Urta stayed right where she was, resting a good amount of her weight on top of Praxis as she continued to work her hips, her breath harsh and ragged in the panthercat's pointed feline ears as she continued to ride out her own orgasms, one following rapidly after the other. Urtan, however, stepped back, his cock popping free and swiftly softening, like the shaft of a stallion after he's serviced a mare. There were others more than ready to step into the gap he'd left, One-eye the first of them, and Greymuzzle next. The twins would follow, once there was room - Urta had to dismount eventually, after all - leaving Horse for last. After Horse, there weren't many that wouldn't be far too stretched to be much use to anyone else for a good long while.

Ryg was nearby, "watching" through the whispering of the spirits flowing through her. She'd make sure Praxis was kept healthy, and would recover quickly even from being gang-banged by a small pack of gnolls. After all, the gnolls were only the beginning - for her crimes, Praxis would be made to serve the needs of the entire camp.

How better to boost morale before the coming great fight?

*

Staring across the field of battle, the Warlord sneered at the back of the messenger racing across the hard-tramped plain. It was that lapida she'd almost ravished the other night, before the raid on her camp had left her beloved pet critically injured, one of her supply trains burned, and her ally, Praxis Venator, a prisoner in the clutches of her enemies. And that same enemy had the gall to send someone who'd once been her prisoner to offer her a chance to parlay! They were just lucky she'd let the messenger return to his lines unmolested, and with his head still on his shoulders!

Of course, it was a rather pretty head, for all that. Cruel as she could be, the Warlord would have thought it a terrible waste to remove it from such an attractive male.

At the end of the day, this was the Warlord's grand dilemma: she sought power, and paid the price to ensure she got it, but it was a price that weighed on her, day by day. When she couldn't lose herself in the intoxication of indulging her passions, whether for blood or for pleasure, the guilt of her many crimes left a gaping hole within the gold-scaled dragoness. It was, she recognized in some part of her psyche, a hole that would probably never be filled.

Until the attack that had done so terrible an injury to her spawnling, the Warlord hadn't really considered why she did what she did. There had been a call from the dark powers at the edges of the world, and they had caught her up, filling her with the power and the vision needed to draw an army to her, and then sally forth to conquer. Until that time, she'd been an outcast from her people, a dragonspawn among a people who hated dragons, sired on her unfortunate mother by a cunning beast who'd worn the guise of a human bard until his secret had been discovered by the Warlord's unfortunate birth.

All that was so long ago, however. So long ago that the Warlord had forgotten her own name in the time between then and now. She had survived the trials of her early because of her hate, hate for people who could be so small-minded, and smaller-hearted, as to strike out at anyone not like them. When the powers of darkness had called out to her - as they often did, according to ancient legends, when a vessel for their power was found worthy - the Warlord had forsaken her name as a weakness of her past, and gladly taken up the sword to unite the land under her banner. A land where all would bow to her rule, and never again would a child be made an orphan because of the intolerance of the ignorant masses.

At least, that was how the Overlord had always assuaged the guilt-ridden whispers of her inner heart. Up until now, it had always worked. Now, however...now she found herself distracted, her attention to giving commands to her army divided, and not nearly as thoughtful as they should have been. But then, why should she concern herself? After all, these were merely some ragtag band from the North. Certainly, they'd caused trouble for her forces in those parts, even taking Belthin prisoner and scattering the barbarians that would have formed a sturdy wing of her army. Now, however, they were facing the Warlord. Compared to all former challenges, their prior successes were as ashes on the wind.

"Charge," the Warlord said with a casual gesture of one hand, and the trumpets began to blare, conveying her order up and down the line.

Foul steeds, more rat or dog than horse, charged forward, their hideous riders lashing about them with lance and blade. An answering charge from the army before her met her own force's charge, and the two mounted columns met with a loud clash of steel that echoed across the plain.

For a moment, the Warlord saw the line hold, and curled the lip of her pointed muzzle. Another gesture, so casual, so contemptuous, and the skies grew dark with ghastly winged creatures - harpies! - that swooped down to join the fray, cackling in unholy delight as they fell on the front lines of the army that had dared to oppose her. Elves and humans alike turned in the face of such an onslaught, and fled for their lives.

The Warlord smiled cruelly. The field was hers.

Raising her talon, the Warlord made another contemptuous gesture.

"Run them down," she said with casual ease. "Leave no survivors. They must all learn the price of opposing me."

[Rolled a 58 versus 55]

Gleeful, heedless of all else except the chance to spill more blood, hobgoblins, goblins, harpies, and worse all surged forward, barreling across the plains in hot pursuit of their routed foes. It was a flat plain, and there was nowhere for them to run, and the Warlord paused to reflect on the futility of it all...until she blinked in astonishment. What trickery was this!? Right before her eyes, a great mist rolled up from the earth in the middle of the field, obscuring the battle from her sight. Into that mist her hordes continued to charge, not realizing their danger until it was far too late.

"Call them back!" the Warlord cried out, but by the time to order was given, it was far too late.

BOOM!

The first explosion nearly knocked the Warlord right off her feet.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

"Find that artillery!" she screamed. "Silence it!"

But the mist kept the source of the launched, exploding missiles from her view.

Just as suddenly as the rain of fire came, however, it ceased. Her mind working fast, the Warlord realized what this meant, but once again, too late, as the mists parted, and from out of their midst, came the hordes of the wolfen and bearfolk and centaurs and actaeons. There were so many of them! They came in a rush, silent until the moment they left the mists, but now raising their voices high in a cacophony of expectant triumph.

Despair flooding her heart, the Warlord watched as these new fighters crashed into the line of her army. The line held for only a short while...and then buckled, and then broke, shattering before the power of these strange warriors from a land the Warlord had dared to discount.

[Rolled 31 versus 55]

"Withdraw," the Warlord said, her voice a harsh whisper. "Withdraw...and when we have pulled back," she grit her sharp, reptilian teeth in fury and disappointment, "we will meet for parlay."

*

Naturally, it was sundown. The Warlord looked around at her much-diminished troops, then shook her head. Without the spawnling to replenish her troops, it was only a matter of time before her army started to dwindle. That last assault...well, it had probably been her last. The way her army looked now, she wasn't at all sure she even had enough to hold onto what she'd taken. The fight on the fields before Avalon City had been only the latest in a long line of failures and disruptions to her chain of command, her supply lines, her reinforcements, and more. Now, finally, she was brought to face the leaders of the enemy that had so suddenly and unexpectedly disrupted all her many plans.

Walking tall and proud and resplendent in her bright armor, the Warlord strode out to meet the shaggy, nearly naked wolfish humanoid that came out to meet her halfway between the assembled armies. It was a perfect moment for the Warlord to order her remaining forces to leap to the attack...except she knew that what she saw of the enemy wasn't their main force. She'd seen several companies withdraw from the field of battle to sequester themselves beyond her sight, using the hills and the trees and the underbrush of the plains to cover themselves as they vanished from sight. If the Warlord had only had Belthin, she might have used the sorceress' magic to divine where her enemies were hiding. But the Warlord's mystic might was limited, and her enemy had far more magic on its side than she'd anticipated.

So, rather than trying anything, she came to a stop, and waited for the grey-furred wolf to meet her halfway between their assembled armies.

"So," she said as the wolf, naked save for a fur cloak around his shoulders, and the axe and sword he wore openly on his belt, "it has finally come to this."

"Yeah," agreed the wolf. "My name is Rufus Redeye, son of Windtooth Furyborn. I'm the one that's ruined all your plans, and wrecked your army." Then he grinned, giving a light shrug. "Well, with some help, of course."

"Of course," the Warlord agreed sourly, then scowled at the wolf. "We're not here just to talk, though, are we?"

"Naw," Rufus agreed cheerfully enough. "This is what we call a contest of champions. At least, that's what I was planning. You win, the rest of us go back up north. I win, we sweep down on your army like lightning, and the only ones that get to live are the ones that can run faster'n a centaur, or hide bettern' a wolf's nose can smell 'em out."

"I hate you, wolf," the Warlord declared, baring her many sharp teeth. "I hate you for what you've done! For what you've stopped me from doing!"

"Naw," Rufus answered casually, drawing his bearded axe and short, chopping blade with equal casualness. "You don't seem like the type. I think you're just upset that you're not getting the thing you think you want, but really don't."

"I want to conquer this land, and rule its people!" the Warlord nearly screamed at the smug-looking wolf.

In an instant, her greatsword was out of its scabbard, and the dragoness was sweeping it before her, driving the wolf back with each swing. Why didn't he just hold still and die!? Bellowing in draconic fury, she tore up the turf, her might more than that of any mere mortal, certainly more than this pathetic upstart mongrel could ever hope to muster against her! Facing her alone, fool that he was, he would die!

But, as the Warlord suddenly discovered, Rufus wasn't alone.

Crying out in pain, the Warlord half-turned, seeing a swift-moving flash of blue and silver and red. It was that little princess, Adel, the chipmunk girl from Hydra! She'd come up so fast and so sudden, the Warlord hadn't even noticed her, hadn't even smelled her through the invisibility spell that had cloaked her, until the chipmunk's blade had clashed against the Warlord's leg armor, shearing off several of the vital protective plates.

"I'll kill you both!" the Warlord screamed, swinging her blade this way and that. All pretence of finesse was cast aside, as she sought to simply hack her enemies in pieces and leave their dismembered carcasses for the carrion creatures. "I'll kill you! I'll kill...ah!"

Rufus stepped back once more as the Warlord's blade slammed into the ground where he'd just been standing, the stroke like the fall of a meteor. Just one such blow would have to hit to end his life, and he knew it well. So, instead of giving the Warlord a chance to lift her sword once more, he stepped forward, swiping his bearded axe out in an upward-scooping motion. The underside of the blade caught beneath the hilt of the immense sword the Warlord carried, then scraped up the handle, gouging into the gauntlets of the powerful dragonling, sending up sparks as she was forced to release the sword to avoid losing her fingers.

In the moment of dismay that the loss of her sword brought, the Warlord was focused entirely on Rufus. It was in that moment that Adel raced by again, her shield up, slamming it with all the might of her small-but-muscular body right into the back of the Warlord's knees. Tumbling back, crying out in rapidly-rising fear as her aspirations for power were swept away with her balance, the Warlord had the breath knocked from her as Rufus leapt up, slamming his feet into her solar plexus with enough force that it dented her armor.

Landing flat on her back, the Warlord looked up at Rufus, her lower lip quivering as the fear of death came upon her for the first time in so many, many years. It was like being a child again, an angry mob hot on her lashing dragon's tail, knowing that the next instant could bring death on swift wings. Rufus laid axe and sword across each other, just barely pricking the Warlord's neck with their sharp edges.

"It's over," said Rufus in a voice that was surprisingly gentle. "You don't have to fight anymore."

[Rolled 52 versus 55]

Somewhere off beyond the field of personal conflict, the Warlord heard the shrieks of her army as they fled in terror, and the triumphant cries of Rufus' army as they gave hot chase. The battle was indeed lost, and the Warlord now knew there would be no salvaging victory from the jaws of such an utter, crushing defeat.

"Do with me as you will," she declared, looking up with defiant, tear-stained eyes right into the steady gaze of the wolf crouched atop her chest.

Path Choices

Shall we spare the life of the Warlord and her pet? Yes/No

(The Warlord will be very unhappy if we let her live but not the spawnling, so the two lives are grouped together.) If yes, what shall we do with her? Suggestions are welcome.

Additionally, do you want to see an alternate "bad end" for if we had actually failed? Yes/No

If yes, I'll add it as an extra after everything else is finished and done.