Blue

Part one: The arcane

Magic. Magic is a fickle thing. Whether or not it is real, remains a hot topic amongst the common populace. Some claim to have seen impossible acts first-hand. Others call these witnesses liars and frauds. The truth, is a little more convoluted than most men care to understand.

Yes. Magic is real. Whether they are chosen through genetics, determined by fate, or selected through dumb luck is unknown, but a very small group of individuals possesses the latent ability to bend the world to their will, using nothing but their minds. These men and women, kobolds and dragons, cats and dogs, humans and orcs alike, have the ability to move earth, conjure fire, freeze water, summon storms, enthrall feeble-minded simpletons, turn themselves invisible, open locks, teleport to far-off destinations, and much, much more. The most powerful of magicians, are rumored to be capable of stopping, or even turning back the tide of time itself.

An important distinction is to be made here. On one hand, there are wizards. Pompous bastards that openly practice their craft, in a vain and misguided attempt to captivate their audience, be they peasants to extort, or kings and noblemen to impress. Very few wizards know actual magic. Most of them are simple charlatans, using alchemy, trickery and sleight of hand to fool people into thinking they know magic. These fake wizards, are a large part of the reason why people don't think real magic exists.

Apart from wizards, there are also mages. Mages are a more responsible kind of magically attuned individuals. They are the polar opposite of wizards, travelling around in unassuming robes, only using their powers when in dire need. While wizards enjoy the attention and the glory and the fame that comes from being gifted, mages try their best to remain anonymous and unseen, intervening at critical moments in history, then vanishing back into the crowd, using a veil of anonymity to maintain their hidden identity.

Wizards, too proud and arrogant to even acknowledge others like them, are mostly on their own when it comes to working their trade. Mages, on the other hand, are a bit more organized. They gather in guilds, although never alone. If everyone in the mages' guild was a magic user, then they could easily be identified by their habits alone. As such, the mages' guild is host not only to those who are able to cast spells, but also to anyone at all interested in studying the various facets of magic. Some less fortunate people join solely to have a roof above their heads, and the free meals that the guild provides are always attracting new members.

Even amongst one another, there are only a sparse few colleagues of the guild who are privy to the information of who is and who is not capable of sorcery. As such, doubts have arisen within the guild itself, as to whether or not magic is real. The true mages have no intention of clearing their brethren's confusion. After all, the less people believe magic exists, the easier it will be for them to go unnoticed, unseen, and unheard of. A few mages even willingly perpetuate the myth that magic is not real, to further bolster their outwards facade.

Part two: The mundane

Kitty Whitespots, nowadays known as Blue, is a kobold who has been studying magic for almost her entire life. Unbeknownst to all but a few, she is capable of extraordinary feats of sorcery, using her mind to conjure the elements, and bend the world to her will. But, being a tiny lizard, she isn't the most powerful mage around. However, having been taken into the mages' guild at a young age, her potential has been steadily growing over the years, her powers becoming stronger with every passing day.

Kitty was born in a comfortable, working-class home in Varanar. The only child of a busy feline father, and a worrying kobold mother, she was coddled for most of her infancy. The cat that conceived her was an industrious fellow, always out working his furry ass to the bone, to provide for his loving wife and newborn child. While not uncommon, it wasn't very prestigious to marry a kobold. Not that he cared. He was happy with her, she was happy with him, and their child would grow up to understand that she is every bit as valuable as the other species are. And that was all that mattered.

Years flew by. Kitty learned how to walk and how to talk, guided by her caring parents. Then, the time came for her to go to school, a privilege for a lowly kobold like herself. The other kids, and even the teachers were not very content with having to share their place of learning, with what they considered to be nothing more than scaly vermin. The young, blue-scaled lizard was harassed and bullied relentlessly. But her father was so proud of his little girl learning how to read and how to write, something that he himself had never gotten a chance to, that she did not have the courage to tell him how much she hated going.

While her schoolmates went out of their way to inconvenience Kitty, seeing her dad smile, when he came home late at night, was worth the daily slog. Whatever she was going through, she was sure that he had it ten times worse. And, encouraged by her feline father, she grew an honest interest in reading books. In normal families, it was the man of the house that would read bedtime stories to his children. But in the Whitespots household, it was Kitty that read to her father.

The days that the school was closed, Kitty spent reading and playing in the tiny garden behind the family's cozy home. She'd place rocks on the ground, and pretend they were the armies she'd read so much about, hundreds of thousands of men facing off against one another. The little kobold had quite the imagination. But playing in the dirt, growing filthy was inevitable. And fresh water was not always readily available. Kitty's pawpad-covered palm was coated in mud, more often than not. That is, until she discovered a new way to move her imaginary armies.

Part three: Ascension

Staring intensely at a rock, the young kobold was surprised to suddenly see it lift, straight up, off the ground, half a foot into the air! As she recoiled in shock, the stone fell into the mud once more. And so, Kitty learned of a gift that she had been bestowed with since birth. It was like moving a muscle she didn't even know she had. It felt good. Liberating. Like she'd spent all of her young life with an untapped source of energy, resting dormant inside of her, and now she'd finally found a way to let it out.

Playing in the backyard soon turned to training and honing her newfound ability. One rock at first. Then two. Within a week, she was strong enough to uproot a plant. A month later, her hands were cleaner than they'd ever been before. She no longer needed to touch her rocks to play with them. Being able to read while concentrating on levitation was a bit too much to ask for, but she was slowly getting there. Her powers were evolving.

Kitty's mother was too busy with household chores, and her father was too occupied with work, to take note of their daughter's special gifts. The young kobold, however, did not yet know that it was best to keep her abilities to herself. Luckily, her first attempt at using them in public was a spectacular failure. She tried to employ her powers to stop a pair of bullies from taking away her favorite book. It was then, that Kitty discovered that she could not conjure magic while under duress. The book was torn to shreds, and many tears were shed that day.

It seemed that happiness, and peacefulness were catalysts to the small lizard's sorcery. Even the day after the incident, she was still unable to move even the smallest of pebbles, too frustrated with herself to focus on magic. Gradually, over the course of almost an entire week, her powers returned to her. The newfound knowledge that peace of mind was paramount to employ her sorcery, was an invaluable discovery. However, there was still one harsh lesson that Kitty had left to learn.

Part four: Downfall

At school once more, the introverted lizard played her imagination-driven rock-games during breaks. Nobody paid her much mind, so a teensy bit of sorcery every now and again went completely unnoticed. That is, until the kobold decided to magically levitate and juggle a few rocks, just for fun. Little did she know, that one of the teachers was staring out of a nearby window, catching the little wizard in the act.

When a magic user is discovered, results tend to vary. Occasionally, they'll be brought to the mages' guild, so their gift can be studied. Other times, they'll be harassed and ostracized until they're forced to leave town. In certain, sparse few instances, things escalate even further. This, was one such case.

The teacher, not very fond of kobolds to begin with, rallied co-workers to her cause, easily convincing them that what she saw was true. They upset the children, gathered some superstitious parents, and chased the blue-scaled lizard all the way back home. An angry mob formed outside, demanding the witch to be burned alive. Wielding pitchforks and torches, they threatened to break down the door. The man of the house wasn't there, leaving the mother and daughter to fend for themselves.

Scared shitless, Kitty's mother did her best to bar both the front and the back doors, succeeding at holding back the murderous crowd. The stand-off lasted for almost an entire hour, with no guards in sight. Then, finally, catching wind of what was going on, the feline father returned. Hoping he could clear this entire mess up, the two kobolds watched him approach the group with relief in their hearts. But then, something happened that neither mother, nor daughter could have predicted.

Part five: Salvation

Harsh words were exchanged. The cat demanded the crowd to disperse, claiming that the guards would deal with any allegations they had. Barging through the mob, he stepped up to the front door of his own house. Inside, Kitty's mother cleared the barricade, and let her husband in. The moment the door swung open, the crowd went wild. A bit of pushing and shoving later, an outraged farmer with a pitchfork cruelly stabbed the feline, driving the farming tool through his heart, right in front of his wife and child.

The sight of blood spurred the crowd on even more, drawing them in like sharks. Pushing the cat's lifeless corpse aside, they stormed the house. Kitty's mother was grabbed and pulled into the mob. What became of her, nobody is certain. The young kobold herself fled up the stairs, attempting to hide in her room. But the lynching hordes, calling for a public execution, were right on her tail. They burst down the door, and cornered the magical whelpling.

Fearing for her life, Kitty begged and pleaded, but her words fell on deaf ears. The torch-carrying men were already setting fire to the place, to wash away any evidence of what was done on that day, and what they were about to do still. From amidst the crowd, a hooded stranger stepped forth. Unarmed, unlike most of his fellows. He reached for the girl, but instead of choking her to death like his peers were calling for, he tenderly took hold of her shaking hand. Then, suddenly, in the blink of an eye, she was no longer in her burning home, but at the center of a ring of candles, in a place she had never seen before.

The stressful sensation of being teleported away, combined with the heavy emotional scarring endured that day, was enough for Kitty to pass out on the spot. When she awoke, she found found herself tucked into a comfortable bed, with cold soup on a nightstand next to her, sunlight filtering in through a large, ornate window, and some of her favorite books arrayed on a large and dusty shelf, spanning the entire length of the impressive bedroom.

Part six: Heaven

Did she die? Was this heaven? No, or so the local head of the mages' guild, who had dozed off in the corner of the room while watching over the girl that was brought in by one of his students, explained. The guild had been watching her for quite some time, but her father declined them, whenever they suggested she be brought in for an alternative education. But now, things had gotten out of hand, and they had no choice but to intervene.

Kitty had questions. Many questions. And after some more rest, a bit of re-heated soup, a fresh change of clothes, and a warm bath with some extravagant ointments, most of those questions were answered. She was devastated to hear that there was nothing the guild could do for her father, and even her mother was taken by the crowd. Worse yet, it was her own fault. But, or so the headmaster promised, if she let the mages' guild guide her, then they would make sure that nothing like that would ever happen again.

The kobold found little solace in the old man's words. For a few weeks, she did nothing but sit in bed, sobbing her worries away, occasionally picking up a book to read. At times, even the headmaster had his doubts that she would ever recover. But, eventually, after several months of intense depression, Kitty finally managed to grow a smile on her face once more, remembering the good old days, when she used to read bedtime stories to her father, and he'd pretend to be asleep. This time, he wasn't pretending.

The guards were asking questions again. They couldn't let go what had happened, during that one fateful afternoon. The mob had blamed Kitty, claiming she murdered her parents in cold blood, although her mother's body was never found. There were too many witnesses, concerned parents demanding the kobold be put down, lest she kill again. The sad fact was that some of them actually believed their own lies. The mages' guild was dragged into the whole affair, since they were supposed to know all about magic. It was clear, that a change of identity was in order.

Part seven: Transformation

Henceforth, Kitty Whitespots would be known, quite simply as Blue. Apprentice of the mages' guild, who had spent her entire life living there, with no connection whatsoever to the brutal murder of her feline father. The fact that she knew magic, would forever remain a secret between her, and the headmaster.

Wise beyond his years, the old man personally trained his new mage-to-be. While not a sorcerer himself -- or so he claimed -- he taught her how to better control and amplify her innate powers. How to channel them, to make plants grow, water boil, to make every object in a room levitate all at once, and to burn hidden missives, after she'd read them, of course.

The training was tough, at first. There was a lot to learn, and the death of at least one of her parents had left Blue still kind of upset, which was highly detrimental to her abilities. But the old man was an expert at what he did. He managed to coax spellcraft from her fingers, no matter the situation. It felt like he'd trained a thousand mages before her. And the way he mystically appeared and then disappeared again, out of thin air sometimes, had Blue questioning whether or not he knew magic himself.

It was almost surreal, how her mentor knew everything about, well, everything! It'd take at least a century to learn all that he understood. Then again, he never did give a straight answer, when asked for his age. The growing kobold looked up to her mentor. She wanted to be just like him. Wise and old and experienced! Well, maybe without the grey beard.

More years passed. What happened to Blue's family, was long buried and forgotten, remembered only by her, her mysterious savior who she never got to meet, and the headmaster who had taught her all about what it meant to be a mage. Use magic only when absolutely necessary, when not in public, and never in a fight, unless her life depended on it. Not like she could cast under pressure anyway.

As a trusting student-teacher relationship grew between Blue and her mentor, and as she matured into young adulthood, the tiny lizard was finally allowed to leave the guild hall without supervision. She was sent on tiny errands, mostly to procure various alchemical ingredients for studying purposes. Furthermore, she was allowed to attend various gardens and libraries, to calm her mind, and sharpen her mystical edge. The more relaxed she was, the better she would be able to act, when called upon in times of need.

Part eight: Hell

But before any real missions were entrusted to her, Blue visited a massage parlor in the wrong side of town. The orange kobold servicing her did such a lovely job of washing away stress and worries, that the mage-in-training ended up passing out right on top of the massaging table. She woke up in a dark and cramped room, her hands chained together, and her muzzle bound shut.

Taken prisoner by the human running the place, the next few months are hard for the little lizard to recall. Too distressed to manage even a simple teleportation spell, she was starved for weeks on end, before being forced to serve as a masseuse herself, made to give humiliating full-body massages, which often devolved into little more than reluctant lapdances for the perverted patronage of the distasteful establishment.

Surely, the guild will send someone to look for her. She won't be left to waste away for the rest of her life, locked up and treated like property, right? Or maybe the other kobolds that she's trapped with are of more importance than she is. What use is magic anyway, if you can't use it when push comes to shove? If only she could find inner peace in this accursed place.

Alas, Blue is far too distressed to free herself. Will Moe come to the half-feline's aid, or will her potential be squandered, as she is forced to serve until she grows old and withers? Mage, or slave? You decide.

Blue

Part one: The arcane

Magic. Magic is a fickle thing. Whether or not it is real, remains a hot topic amongst the common populace. Some claim to have seen impossible acts first-hand. Others call these witnesses liars and frauds. The truth, is a little more convoluted than most men care to understand.

Yes. Magic is real. Whether they are chosen through genetics, determined by fate, or selected through dumb luck is unknown, but a very small group of individuals possesses the latent ability to bend the world to their will, using nothing but their minds. These men and women, kobolds and dragons, cats and dogs, humans and orcs alike, have the ability to move earth, conjure fire, freeze water, summon storms, enthrall feeble-minded simpletons, turn themselves invisible, open locks, teleport to far-off destinations, and much, much more. The most powerful of magicians, are rumored to be capable of stopping, or even turning back the tide of time itself.

An important distinction is to be made here. On one hand, there are wizards. Pompous bastards that openly practice their craft, in a vain and misguided attempt to captivate their audience, be they peasants to extort, or kings and noblemen to impress. Very few wizards know actual magic. Most of them are simple charlatans, using alchemy, trickery and sleight of hand to fool people into thinking they know magic. These fake wizards, are a large part of the reason why people don't think real magic exists.

Apart from wizards, there are also mages. Mages are a more responsible kind of magically attuned individuals. They are the polar opposite of wizards, travelling around in unassuming robes, only using their powers when in dire need. While wizards enjoy the attention and the glory and the fame that comes from being gifted, mages try their best to remain anonymous and unseen, intervening at critical moments in history, then vanishing back into the crowd, using a veil of anonymity to maintain their hidden identity.

Wizards, too proud and arrogant to even acknowledge others like them, are mostly on their own when it comes to working their trade. Mages, on the other hand, are a bit more organized. They gather in guilds, although never alone. If everyone in the mages' guild was a magic user, then they could easily be identified by their habits alone. As such, the mages' guild is host not only to those who are able to cast spells, but also to anyone at all interested in studying the various facets of magic. Some less fortunate people join solely to have a roof above their heads, and the free meals that the guild provides are always attracting new members.

Even amongst one another, there are only a sparse few colleagues of the guild who are privy to the information of who is and who is not capable of sorcery. As such, doubts have arisen within the guild itself, as to whether or not magic is real. The true mages have no intention of clearing their brethren's confusion. After all, the less people believe magic exists, the easier it will be for them to go unnoticed, unseen, and unheard of. A few mages even willingly perpetuate the myth that magic is not real, to further bolster their outwards facade.

Part two: The mundane

Kitty Whitespots, nowadays known as Blue, is a kobold who has been studying magic for almost her entire life. Unbeknownst to all but a few, she is capable of extraordinary feats of sorcery, using her mind to conjure the elements, and bend the world to her will. But, being a tiny lizard, she isn't the most powerful mage around. However, having been taken into the mages' guild at a young age, her potential has been steadily growing over the years, her powers becoming stronger with every passing day.

Kitty was born in a comfortable, working-class home in Varanar. The only child of a busy feline father, and a worrying kobold mother, she was coddled for most of her infancy. The cat that conceived her was an industrious fellow, always out working his furry ass to the bone, to provide for his loving wife and newborn child. While not uncommon, it wasn't very prestigious to marry a kobold. Not that he cared. He was happy with her, she was happy with him, and their child would grow up to understand that she is every bit as valuable as the other species are. And that was all that mattered.

Years flew by. Kitty learned how to walk and how to talk, guided by her caring parents. Then, the time came for her to go to school, a privilege for a lowly kobold like herself. The other kids, and even the teachers were not very content with having to share their place of learning, with what they considered to be nothing more than scaly vermin. The young, blue-scaled lizard was harassed and bullied relentlessly. But her father was so proud of his little girl learning how to read and how to write, something that he himself had never gotten a chance to, that she did not have the courage to tell him how much she hated going.

While her schoolmates went out of their way to inconvenience Kitty, seeing her dad smile, when he came home late at night, was worth the daily slog. Whatever she was going through, she was sure that he had it ten times worse. And, encouraged by her feline father, she grew an honest interest in reading books. In normal families, it was the man of the house that would read bedtime stories to his children. But in the Whitespots household, it was Kitty that read to her father.

The days that the school was closed, Kitty spent reading and playing in the tiny garden behind the family's cozy home. She'd place rocks on the ground, and pretend they were the armies she'd read so much about, hundreds of thousands of men facing off against one another. The little kobold had quite the imagination. But playing in the dirt, growing filthy was inevitable. And fresh water was not always readily available. Kitty's pawpad-covered palm was coated in mud, more often than not. That is, until she discovered a new way to move her imaginary armies.

Part three: Ascension

Staring intensely at a rock, the young kobold was surprised to suddenly see it lift, straight up, off the ground, half a foot into the air! As she recoiled in shock, the stone fell into the mud once more. And so, Kitty learned of a gift that she had been bestowed with since birth. It was like moving a muscle she didn't even know she had. It felt good. Liberating. Like she'd spent all of her young life with an untapped source of energy, resting dormant inside of her, and now she'd finally found a way to let it out.

Playing in the backyard soon turned to training and honing her newfound ability. One rock at first. Then two. Within a week, she was strong enough to uproot a plant. A month later, her hands were cleaner than they'd ever been before. She no longer needed to touch her rocks to play with them. Being able to read while concentrating on levitation was a bit too much to ask for, but she was slowly getting there. Her powers were evolving.

Kitty's mother was too busy with household chores, and her father was too occupied with work, to take note of their daughter's special gifts. The young kobold, however, did not yet know that it was best to keep her abilities to herself. Luckily, her first attempt at using them in public was a spectacular failure. She tried to employ her powers to stop a pair of bullies from taking away her favorite book. It was then, that Kitty discovered that she could not conjure magic while under duress. The book was torn to shreds, and many tears were shed that day.

It seemed that happiness, and peacefulness were catalysts to the small lizard's sorcery. Even the day after the incident, she was still unable to move even the smallest of pebbles, too frustrated with herself to focus on magic. Gradually, over the course of almost an entire week, her powers returned to her. The newfound knowledge that peace of mind was paramount to employ her sorcery, was an invaluable discovery. However, there was still one harsh lesson that Kitty had left to learn.

Part four: Downfall

At school once more, the introverted lizard played her imagination-driven rock-games during breaks. Nobody paid her much mind, so a teensy bit of sorcery every now and again went completely unnoticed. That is, until the kobold decided to magically levitate and juggle a few rocks, just for fun. Little did she know, that one of the teachers was staring out of a nearby window, catching the little wizard in the act.

When a magic user is discovered, results tend to vary. Occasionally, they'll be brought to the mages' guild, so their gift can be studied. Other times, they'll be harassed and ostracized until they're forced to leave town. In certain, sparse few instances, things escalate even further. This, was one such case.

The teacher, not very fond of kobolds to begin with, rallied co-workers to her cause, easily convincing them that what she saw was true. They upset the children, gathered some superstitious parents, and chased the blue-scaled lizard all the way back home. An angry mob formed outside, demanding the witch to be burned alive. Wielding pitchforks and torches, they threatened to break down the door. The man of the house wasn't there, leaving the mother and daughter to fend for themselves.

Scared shitless, Kitty's mother did her best to bar both the front and the back doors, succeeding at holding back the murderous crowd. The stand-off lasted for almost an entire hour, with no guards in sight. Then, finally, catching wind of what was going on, the feline father returned. Hoping he could clear this entire mess up, the two kobolds watched him approach the group with relief in their hearts. But then, something happened that neither mother, nor daughter could have predicted.

Part five: Salvation

Harsh words were exchanged. The cat demanded the crowd to disperse, claiming that the guards would deal with any allegations they had. Barging through the mob, he stepped up to the front door of his own house. Inside, Kitty's mother cleared the barricade, and let her husband in. The moment the door swung open, the crowd went wild. A bit of pushing and shoving later, an outraged farmer with a pitchfork cruelly stabbed the feline, driving the farming tool through his heart, right in front of his wife and child.

The sight of blood spurred the crowd on even more, drawing them in like sharks. Pushing the cat's lifeless corpse aside, they stormed the house. Kitty's mother was grabbed and pulled into the mob. What became of her, nobody is certain. The young kobold herself fled up the stairs, attempting to hide in her room. But the lynching hordes, calling for a public execution, were right on her tail. They burst down the door, and cornered the magical whelpling.

Fearing for her life, Kitty begged and pleaded, but her words fell on deaf ears. The torch-carrying men were already setting fire to the place, to wash away any evidence of what was done on that day, and what they were about to do still. From amidst the crowd, a hooded stranger stepped forth. Unarmed, unlike most of his fellows. He reached for the girl, but instead of choking her to death like his peers were calling for, he tenderly took hold of her shaking hand. Then, suddenly, in the blink of an eye, she was no longer in her burning home, but at the center of a ring of candles, in a place she had never seen before.

The stressful sensation of being teleported away, combined with the heavy emotional scarring endured that day, was enough for Kitty to pass out on the spot. When she awoke, she found found herself tucked into a comfortable bed, with cold soup on a nightstand next to her, sunlight filtering in through a large, ornate window, and some of her favorite books arrayed on a large and dusty shelf, spanning the entire length of the impressive bedroom.

Part six: Heaven

Did she die? Was this heaven? No, or so the local head of the mages' guild, who had dozed off in the corner of the room while watching over the girl that was brought in by one of his students, explained. The guild had been watching her for quite some time, but her father declined them, whenever they suggested she be brought in for an alternative education. But now, things had gotten out of hand, and they had no choice but to intervene.

Kitty had questions. Many questions. And after some more rest, a bit of re-heated soup, a fresh change of clothes, and a warm bath with some extravagant ointments, most of those questions were answered. She was devastated to hear that there was nothing the guild could do for her father, and even her mother was taken by the crowd. Worse yet, it was her own fault. But, or so the headmaster promised, if she let the mages' guild guide her, then they would make sure that nothing like that would ever happen again.

The kobold found little solace in the old man's words. For a few weeks, she did nothing but sit in bed, sobbing her worries away, occasionally picking up a book to read. At times, even the headmaster had his doubts that she would ever recover. But, eventually, after several months of intense depression, Kitty finally managed to grow a smile on her face once more, remembering the good old days, when she used to read bedtime stories to her father, and he'd pretend to be asleep. This time, he wasn't pretending.

The guards were asking questions again. They couldn't let go what had happened, during that one fateful afternoon. The mob had blamed Kitty, claiming she murdered her parents in cold blood, although her mother's body was never found. There were too many witnesses, concerned parents demanding the kobold be put down, lest she kill again. The sad fact was that some of them actually believed their own lies. The mages' guild was dragged into the whole affair, since they were supposed to know all about magic. It was clear, that a change of identity was in order.

Part seven: Transformation

Henceforth, Kitty Whitespots would be known, quite simply as Blue. Apprentice of the mages' guild, who had spent her entire life living there, with no connection whatsoever to the brutal murder of her feline father. The fact that she knew magic, would forever remain a secret between her, and the headmaster.

Wise beyond his years, the old man personally trained his new mage-to-be. While not a sorcerer himself -- or so he claimed -- he taught her how to better control and amplify her innate powers. How to channel them, to make plants grow, water boil, to make every object in a room levitate all at once, and to burn hidden missives, after she'd read them, of course.

The training was tough, at first. There was a lot to learn, and the death of at least one of her parents had left Blue still kind of upset, which was highly detrimental to her abilities. But the old man was an expert at what he did. He managed to coax spellcraft from her fingers, no matter the situation. It felt like he'd trained a thousand mages before her. And the way he mystically appeared and then disappeared again, out of thin air sometimes, had Blue questioning whether or not he knew magic himself.

It was almost surreal, how her mentor knew everything about, well, everything! It'd take at least a century to learn all that he understood. Then again, he never did give a straight answer, when asked for his age. The growing kobold looked up to her mentor. She wanted to be just like him. Wise and old and experienced! Well, maybe without the grey beard.

More years passed. What happened to Blue's family, was long buried and forgotten, remembered only by her, her mysterious savior who she never got to meet, and the headmaster who had taught her all about what it meant to be a mage. Use magic only when absolutely necessary, when not in public, and never in a fight, unless her life depended on it. Not like she could cast under pressure anyway.

As a trusting student-teacher relationship grew between Blue and her mentor, and as she matured into young adulthood, the tiny lizard was finally allowed to leave the guild hall without supervision. She was sent on tiny errands, mostly to procure various alchemical ingredients for studying purposes. Furthermore, she was allowed to attend various gardens and libraries, to calm her mind, and sharpen her mystical edge. The more relaxed she was, the better she would be able to act, when called upon in times of need.

Part eight: Hell

But before any real missions were entrusted to her, Blue visited a massage parlor in the wrong side of town. The orange kobold servicing her did such a lovely job of washing away stress and worries, that the mage-in-training ended up passing out right on top of the massaging table. She woke up in a dark and cramped room, her hands chained together, and her muzzle bound shut.

Taken prisoner by the human running the place, the next few months are hard for the little lizard to recall. Too distressed to manage even a simple teleportation spell, she was starved for weeks on end, before being forced to serve as a masseuse herself, made to give humiliating full-body massages, which often devolved into little more than reluctant lapdances for the perverted patronage of the distasteful establishment.

Surely, the guild will send someone to look for her. She won't be left to waste away for the rest of her life, locked up and treated like property, right? Or maybe the other kobolds that she's trapped with are of more importance than she is. What use is magic anyway, if you can't use it when push comes to shove? If only she could find inner peace in this accursed place.

Alas, Blue is far too distressed to free herself. Will Moe come to the half-feline's aid, or will her potential be squandered, as she is forced to serve until she grows old and withers? Mage, or slave? You decide.

Cassidy

Part one: Sunshine and rainbows

Cassidy Butterscotch is a female, anthropomorphic fox in the prime of her life, breeding kobolds in a run-down village on the outskirts of Varanar. Formerly the wife to a prestigious farmer, all that remains of her vulpine husband is the farm they bought together. The acres of land he once used to work have all gone barren, overrun by weeds and wildlife. When Moe encounters the nudist woman, she tries to trick the kobold into becoming one of her livestock.

Instead of falling for her ruse, Moe can share tea with her. They can have consensual sex, she can be murdered in cold blood, or she can buy the kobold as a slave. Whether you fuck her, kill her, tie her to her own breeding table or get bought by her, the vixen will surely never forget her fateful encounter with the determined, green-scaled kobold. If the two meet at all, that is.

Born into a loving family of purebred foxes, Cassidy was never devoid of care and attention when she was little. Her father, a hard-working man named Cyrus, was especially fond of his tiny girl. The two played and laughed and had fun together for most of her youngest years. When he wasn't busy working, he spent every waking moment together with his darling child. She was the pride and joy of his existence, a spot she snagged from her own mother, who had fallen from her husband's grace.

Flora Butterscotch, last name granted to her by her other half. She used to own a flower shop in town, which she gave up when she became pregnant with Cassidy. Despite loving her husband with all of her heart, something was missing from their relationship. Especially after giving birth, her overly gentle spouse could no longer satisfy her in bed. She wasn't as tight as she used to be, and Cyrus was never the most hung canine in town. He couldn't sate her rising need.

Part two: Clouds and a breeze

In secret, Flora wanted to be degraded and humiliated, thrown across the room, slapped and scratched and pinched and toyed with. She tried, oh-so many times to make this clear to her partner, but he never got the message. To him, making love was a kind and gentle affair, full of kissing and cuddling and a lot of other things she had to pretend to enjoy. Luckily, their unsatisfying time together was often cut short, either by him finishing early, or by their daughter demanding attention.

Cyrus was, perhaps, a bit too concerned with their daughter. If he'd spent even half the time rubbing Flora's belly like he did Cassidy's, she could maybe get her rocks off for once in their relationship. Heck, if he spanked her like he did their daughter, she'd go nuts. But alas, despite the signs being clear, it was simply not meant to be. Flora's frustration grew too big to be contained to the bedroom. And thus, the shaky foundations of their relationship began to fall apart.

As Cassidy grew old enough to start attending a church-ran school, her life at home was no longer all sunshine and rainbows. While they tried to hide their disagreements from their daughter as best as they could, the young vixen often came home to the lovely sounds of her parents arguing. At such a young, impressionable age, the constant back-and-forth left a traumatic mark on the girl's mind, bad memories she would carry with her for the rest of her life.

Not too long after Cassidy began her education, the merchant her father worked his ass off for went out of business. The shop itself was thriving, but the owner had racked up a considerable gambling debt. One that could not be repaid without selling everything. And just like that, Cyrus was left unemployed.

Part three: Raindrops and wind

Reduced to odd jobs here and there, the money he made was barely enough to keep the family fed and clothed. Despite trying his very hardest, the fox was simply not fit to perform most manual labor in town. There were horses and ogres and orcs and bears and half a dozen other larger species eager to work for less than he was asking. As if being unable to please his wife in bed wasn't enough, now Cyrus couldn't even support her and his lovely daughter anymore. But, Flora had an idea. A way to fix all of their problems.

Prostitution. He vehemently begged her not to do it, but Cyrus was powerless to stop his dead-set spouse. One fateful night, she broke his heart by walking out of the front door. The next morning, she returned with an entire bag full of gold, and a coat of fur full of spunk from the various suitors she'd been with. For the first time since they got together, Flora reached her climax, albeit in the arms of another man. And she liked it.

Sleeping by day, sleeping around by night. Cyrus was devastated. In the span of a week, it was as though all the vibrancy had been drained from his fur. His jolly, cheerful demeanor turned sour and bitter. Cassidy suffered the most from this. While the constant money-arguments were a thing of the past, and her family could afford proper food once more, her father was no longer interested in playing with her. The man she looked up to the most, had been broken down into a husk of his former self. And it hurt every evening she had to go to sleep without being tucked in, without being read a bedtime story, without so much as a good night from her dad, blankly staring at the door, waiting for his wife to come home.

But the family had not hit rock bottom yet. There was still a long way down to go. Instead of leaving the house to do her job, Flora began to invite her suitors to her home. Cyrus tried to stand up to them, but there was only so much a lone fox could do against someone twice his size, in more ways than one. And so, Cassidy was exposed to sex for the first time in her life, coming home to her father crying in a corner, bruised and beaten, her mother howling in pleasure from the bedroom, wildly riding a burly horse's impressive length, not even caring that her daughter was looking on from the open doorway.

Part four: Thunder and lightning

Things deteriorated from thereon out. Cassidy's father grew even more detached and distant. He was forced to do various acts by his wife's often-violent clients. They began to show up in groups, and showed no regard to the family's property or privacy. Violated, degraded and humiliated, there was little left that Cyrus dared to deny them. The only thing he was still willing to fight for, was his growing daughter. They could not, and they would not have her.

Several nights, sometimes even multiple in a row, Cassidy was made to spend at a nearby inn, to save her from the worst of the debauchery. Flora kept insisting she be allowed to stay, or perhaps even join them. Her lithe, supple young body could be worth so much money. And maybe she could even learn a trick or two from her darling mother. But there was one thing Cyrus was clear about. He'd rather die than let his wife dig her claws into Cassidy. The young vixen was off limits.

With her maturing body, and her peculiar household situation, it came to nobody's surprise that Cassidy grew an early interest in boys. At the inn, she met with a lovely young fox by the name of Horus Cinnamon, working as a maid, of the male variety. He was clever, insightful and funny. He offered a listening ear, for her to vent about how horrible things were at home, and a strong, but somewhat feminine shoulder to cry on whenever she felt emotional. In a way, he reminded her of her father, before things took a turn for the worse.

The church-ran school shut down. Lack of funding. It's not like the nuns had much left to teach the aging population of their classes. And so, Cassidy was left with a choice. Spend time at home, being harassed by her mother's suitors, or help out her boyfriend with his work. An easy decision. Cleaning rooms together was far more fun than watching both her parents get abused by rude, burly men. Plus, she earned a bit of pocket money in the process. On top of that, the owner of the inn, understanding of the young vulpine's situation, let her sleep there for free, as long as she put in some good work. Spending time at the inn was almost enough to make her forget about home. Almost.

Part five: Cloudburst

It was inevitable. Everyone knew it was coming. Cyrus put up a bit too much of a fight. One of the men brought a knife. One thing lead to another. He didn't survive the night. He was found dead in the streets, halfway between home and the inn. Bled out to the point where he could no longer walk. Then, he crawled for half a block, leaving a large trail of blood in his wake, before finally collapsing onto the cold, hard ground. He wanted to see his daughter, one last time. But even that, he could not do.

Cyrus died a failure. But in Cassidy's eyes, he was a hero. He was her hero. He was her father. He died, trying to see her. Maybe her mother was right. If she'd been at home, none of this would have happened. But it was his wish, that she stay as far away from her mother's whoring as she possibly could. And that wish would be honored.

While the young vixen grieved, wept and mourned at her father's grave, her boyfriend was lured home by her mother. He reminded her of her lost husband, as much as he reminded Cassidy of her father, only bigger in all the places that mattered, and far more kinky in bed. In secret, they began to see each other, behind Cassidy's back. She never caught wind of her boyfriend's affair. He loved her, but her mother was so much more experienced and wild. He was torn between the two.

Luckily, it was very rare for all three of the foxes to be assembled in one place. Cassidy avoided her mother like the plague, rightfully blaming her for what happened to dad. As the older vixen used the money she made to build her very own brothel, the younger girl and her boyfriend pooled their saved up funds together, to buy a large house in a rural hamlet, outside of the city walls. The day the Golden Fox was opened for business, the growing couple moved away from Varanar.

Part six: The eye of the storm

Horus worked the fields, Cassidy sold the produce. She cooked and cleaned, and every day he came home, he had a warm meal, a warm bath and a warm bed to look forwards to. A few months later, they got married. The entire village came to celebrate. Even that one old owl, who never really seemed to talk to anyone outside of his store. Cinnamon and Butterscotch. They were made for one another.

Life was good. Simple, but good. It was nice, to be away from the crowded city-center. Sure, the house was a bit too big for the two of them, and farming was a dirty job when compared to cleaning inn rooms, but it was wholesome and rewarding. They grew their own food, and whatever was left over, was sold for gold. Most importantly, they were far away from Flora. But distance alone, wasn't enough to dissuade Horus.

Cassidy was much like her father. A genuinely nice person and a good spouse, but a bit vanilla in the sack. Her husband had hoped that a taste of country life would spice things up a little, but alas, his wife remained meek and tame. She loved him too much to dominate him like her mother used to do. And that was not something the lusty fox could stay away from for long.

Instead of working the fields, Horus snuck away to spend time with Flora in secret. At first, it was a one time thing. But he couldn't get enough of it. More and more frequently, he abandoned his duties to cheat on his wife with her mother. When caught, he'd come up with some stupid excuse like running off to buy a new plow, or asking a friend in Varanar for farming tips. His lies were transparent, but Cassidy was blindly loyal to her other half. He was probably preparing a big surprise for her, or something.

Part seven: Downpour

Flora wasn't content with Horus' sporadic visits. She wanted more of her boytoy. She invited him, to come run the Golden Fox with her. They could share clients. His deepest, darkest desires would become a reality. A reality, which he would be paid for. Far more than he could ever make, farming mud in the middle of nowhere.

It was a difficult decision to make. Staying at a farm with the love of his life, or becoming a rich male prostitute in the middle of town, living out his every fantasy. In the end, it wasn't the money that convinced him. It was the the promise of complete sexual liberation. To be free to do whatever he wanted, with whoever he wanted, instead of being confined to a single, boring mate. It was his dream, and if he had to break Cassidy's heart to get there, then so be it.

Horus couldn't muster up the courage to tell Cassidy. To say that he wanted to split up. That he'd be happier living with her mother. She wouldn't understand. Like most days, without informing his wife, he snuck away from the hamlet, headed for the city. He never returned.

For weeks, the young vixen waited, hoping her lover would return. She feared the worst. That he'd been abducted. Killed. Forcibly conscripted into a militia. Taken out by rival farmers. Arrested by a corrupt guard. The thought that he'd willingly left her, never crossed the vulpine's mind. Every day he stayed away, she died a little more. After many months, her tears ran dry. She accepted the fact that he was gone.

Part eight: Wreckage

Cassidy, alone, could not run the farm. She wasn't cut out to work the fields, and she didn't know the first thing about growing crops. The food they'd stockpiled in the barn was running out. Good. It reminded her of Horus, whenever she took a bite. She missed her husband so much.

She needed a new source of income. But what could she, a lone woman, do with a large farm and acres of land? Selling the place came to mind, but then she'd be homeless, and the gold would only last her for so long. As a last resort, she could crawl back to her mother, and either mooch for money, or become a whore, something the vixen had vowed to never do.

No. There had to be another way. Cassidy wouldn't betray her father's legacy, no matter what. Running low on food and on options, it was as though a miracle had happened, when the answer to her problems presented itself on a wooden platform in the center of the hamlet. A slaver selling a kobold. Business as usual for some. A life-changing event for the vixen.

Using the last of the money she had left, Cassidy bought the slave. Chained it up in the stables. Invited other kobolds to come fuck it. To breed it. Selling the milk that freely oozed from the pregnant lizard's humanoid breasts, the vulpine was able to afford a second slave. And then a third. The fourth, a male, she caught herself. It's not like they had any rights. All she had to do was wrangle them, tie them up, and the rest was history.

Epilogue: Clear skies

Meat. Eggs, or milk depending on whether they were purebred or mutts. The profits weren't great, but more than plenty to live off of. Costs were exceedingly low. A bit of hay, a few morsels of stale bread every now and again. They didn't need much. Kobolds proved to be the perfect cattle for a lone vulpine rancher. They were small, weak, pliable and dumb enough to easily keep under control. And on lustful nights, the most well-hung amongst them could even fill in the void that her husband had left.

Cassidy made sure that her livestock knew she was in control. To keep the kobolds in check, she ended up doing everything her husband wished she'd done to him. She became far more dominant and assertive. Self-confident, to the point where she willfully eschewed clothing, preferring to walk around naked. And while she'd never admit it, not even to herself, she ended up preferring the company of certain kobolds, over the embrace of regular men.

A few were sold as pets or slaves, some remained as breeders and milking cows, a lot were taken by the butcher and carved up for meat. Others were keepers, the vixen's own little group of favorites. Most nights she slept in bed, but resting in the stud pen had its own unique charm to it.

Although she was still young, it seemed that Cassidy had finally found her way in life. She didn't have much to be proud of, but at least she had her kobolds. And in a way, they had her, too. They all hated it at first, but some came to love their mistress, almost as much as she loved them.

Cassidy

Part one: Sunshine and rainbows

Cassidy Butterscotch is a female, anthropomorphic fox in the prime of her life, breeding kobolds in a run-down village on the outskirts of Varanar. Formerly the wife to a prestigious farmer, all that remains of her vulpine husband is the farm they bought together. The acres of land he once used to work have all gone barren, overrun by weeds and wildlife. When Moe encounters the nudist woman, she tries to trick the kobold into becoming one of her livestock.

Instead of falling for her ruse, Moe can share tea with her. She can be murdered in cold blood, or she can buy the kobold as a slave. Whether you talk to her, kill her, or get bought by her, the vixen will surely never forget her fateful encounter with the determined, green-scaled kobold. If the two meet at all, that is.

Born into a loving family of purebred foxes, Cassidy was never devoid of care and attention when she was little. Her father, a hard-working man named Cyrus, was especially fond of his tiny girl. The two played and laughed and had fun together for most of her youngest years. When he wasn't busy working, he spent every waking moment together with his darling child. She was the pride and joy of his existence, a spot she snagged from her own mother, who had fallen from her husband's grace.

Flora Butterscotch, last name granted to her by her other half. She used to own a flower shop in town, which she gave up when she became pregnant with Cassidy. Despite loving her husband with all of her heart, something was missing from their relationship. Especially after giving birth, her overly gentle spouse could no longer satisfy her. He couldn't sate her rising need.

Part two: Clouds and a breeze

Cyrus was, perhaps, a bit too concerned with their daughter. If he'd spent even half the time romancing Flora as he did playing with Cassidy, the older vixen wouldn't have grown so frustrated. The few hours they did spend together, were often cut short by their attention-hogging child. She tried many times, to let him know that she wanted them to be together more often, but he never seemed to get the message. And thus, the shaky foundations of their relationship began to fall apart.

As Cassidy grew old enough to start attending a church-ran school, her life at home was no longer all sunshine and rainbows. While they tried to hide their disagreements from their daughter as best as they could, the young canine often came home to the lovely sounds of her parents arguing. At such a young, impressionable age, the constant back-and-forth left a traumatic mark on the girl's mind, bad memories she would carry with her for the rest of her life.

Not too long after Cassidy began her education, the merchant her father worked his ass off for went out of business. The shop itself was thriving, but the owner had racked up a considerable gambling debt. One that could not be repaid without selling everything. And just like that, Cyrus was left unemployed.

Part three: Raindrops and wind

Reduced to odd jobs here and there, the money he made was barely enough to keep the family fed and clothed. Despite trying his very hardest, the fox was simply not fit to perform most manual labor in town. There were horses and ogres and orcs and bears and half a dozen other larger species eager to work for less than he was asking. But, Flora had an idea. A way to fix all of their problems.

Prostitution. He vehemently begged her not to do it, but Cyrus was powerless to stop his dead-set spouse. One fateful night, she broke his heart by walking out of the front door. The next morning, she returned with an entire bag full of gold. Enough to sustain them for an entire month. But she wasn't going to stop there. She liked it.

Cyrus was devastated. In the span of a week, it was as though all the vibrancy had been drained from his fur. His jolly, cheerful demeanor turned sour and bitter. Cassidy suffered the most from this. While the constant money-arguments were a thing of the past, and her family could afford proper food once more, her father was no longer interested in playing with her. The man she looked up to the most, had been broken down into a husk of his former self. And it hurt every evening she had to go to sleep without being tucked in, without being read a bedtime story, without so much as a good night from her dad, blankly staring at the door, waiting for his wife to come home.

But the family had not hit rock bottom yet. There was still a long way down to go. Instead of leaving the house to do her job, Flora began to invite her suitors to her home. Cyrus tried to stand up to them, but there was only so much a lone fox could do against someone twice his size. And so, Cassidy came home to her father crying in a corner, bruised and beaten, while her mother was in the bedroom with another man.

Part four: Thunder and lightning

Things deteriorated from thereon out. Cassidy's father grew even more detached and distant. He was frequently beaten up by his wife's more violent clients. They began to show up in groups, and showed no regard to the family's property or privacy. There was little that Cyrus dared to deny them. The only thing he was still willing to fight for, was his growing daughter. They could not, and they would not lay their hands on her.

Several nights, sometimes even multiple in a row, Cassidy was made to spend at a nearby inn, to save her from the worst of the violence. With her maturing body, and her peculiar household situation, it came to nobody's surprise that she grew an early interest in boys. At the inn, she met with a lovely young fox by the name of Horus Cinnamon, working as a maid, of the male variety.

He was clever, insightful and funny. He offered a listening ear, for her to vent about how horrible things were at home, and a strong, but somewhat feminine shoulder to cry on whenever she felt emotional. In a way, he reminded her of her father, before things took a turn for the worse.

The church-ran school shut down. Lack of funding. It's not like the nuns had much left to teach the aging population of their classes. And so, Cassidy was left with a choice. Spend time at home, or help out her boyfriend with his work. An easy decision. Cleaning rooms together was far more fun than watching her father get beat up by rude, burly men. Plus, she earned a bit of pocket money in the process. On top of that, the owner of the inn, understanding of the young vulpine's situation, let her sleep there for free, as long as she put in some good work. Spending time at the inn was almost enough to make her forget about home. Almost.

Part five: Cloudburst

It was inevitable. Everyone knew it was coming. Cyrus put up a bit too much of a fight. One of the men brought a knife. One thing lead to another. He didn't survive the night. He was found dead in the streets, halfway between home and the inn. Bled out to the point where he could no longer walk. Then, he crawled for half a block, leaving a large trail of blood in his wake, before finally collapsing onto the cold, hard ground. He wanted to see his daughter, one last time. But even that, he could not do.

Cyrus died a failure. But in Cassidy's eyes, he was a hero. He was her hero. He was her father. He died, trying to see her. It was his last wish, that she stay as far away from her mother's corruptive influence as she possibly could. And that wish would be honored.

While the fatherless canine grieved, wept and mourned at her daddy's grave, her boyfriend was lured home by her mother. He reminded her of her lost husband, as much as he reminded Cassidy of her father. In secret, they began to see each other. The younger vixen never caught wind of her boyfriend's affair. He loved her, but her mother was so much more experienced and wild. He was torn between the two.

Luckily, it was very rare for all three of the foxes to be assembled in one place. Cassidy avoided her mother like the plague, rightfully blaming her for what happened to dad. As the older vixen used the money she made to build her very own brothel, the younger girl and her boyfriend pooled their saved up funds together, to buy a large house in a rural hamlet, outside of the city walls. The day the Golden Fox was opened for business, the growing couple moved away from Varanar.

Part six: The eye of the storm

Horus worked the fields, Cassidy sold the produce. She cooked and cleaned, and every day he came home, he had a warm meal, a warm bath and a warm bed to look forwards to. A few months later, they got married. The entire village came to celebrate. Even that one old owl, who never really seemed to talk to anyone outside of his store. Cinnamon and Butterscotch. They were made for one another.

Life was good. Simple, but good. It was nice, to be away from the crowded city-center. Sure, the house was a bit too big for the two of them, and farming was a dirty job when compared to cleaning inn rooms, but it was wholesome and rewarding. They grew their own food, and whatever was left over, was sold for gold. Most importantly, they were far away from Flora. But distance alone, wasn't enough to dissuade Horus.

Cassidy was much like her father. A genuinely nice person and a good spouse, but a bit vanilla. Her husband had hoped that a taste of country life would spice things up a little, but alas, his wife remained meek and tame. She loved him too much to treat him like her mother used to do. And that was not something the lusty fox could stay away from for long.

Instead of working the fields, Horus snuck away to spend time with Flora in secret. At first, it was a one time thing. But he couldn't get enough of it. More and more frequently, he abandoned his duties to cheat on his wife with her mother. When caught, he'd come up with some stupid excuse like running off to buy a new plow, or asking a friend in Varanar for farming tips. His lies were transparent, but Cassidy was blindly loyal to her other half. He was probably preparing a big surprise for her, or something.

Part seven: Downpour

Flora wasn't content with Horus' sporadic visits. She wanted more of his nourishing presence. She invited him, to come run the Golden Fox with her. His deepest, darkest desires would become a reality. A reality, which he would be paid for. Far more than he could ever make, farming mud in the middle of nowhere.

It was a difficult decision to make. Staying at a farm with the love of his life, or becoming a rich business owner in the middle of town, living out his every fantasy. In the end, it wasn't the money that convinced him. It was the the promise of complete liberation. To be free to do whatever he wanted, instead of being a slave to crops. It was his dream, and if he had to break Cassidy's heart to get there, then so be it.

Horus couldn't muster up the courage to tell her. To say that he wanted to split up. That he'd be happier living with her mother. She wouldn't understand. Like most days, without informing his wife, he snuck away from the hamlet, headed for the city. He never returned.

For weeks, the young vixen waited, hoping her lover would return. She feared the worst. That he'd been abducted. Killed. Forcibly conscripted into a militia. Taken out by rival farmers. Arrested by a corrupt guard. The thought that he'd willingly left her, never crossed the vulpine's mind. Every day he stayed away, she died a little more. After many months, her tears ran dry. She accepted the fact that he was gone.

Part eight: Wreckage

Cassidy, alone, could not run the farm. She wasn't cut out to work the fields, and she didn't know the first thing about growing crops. The food they'd stockpiled in the barn was running out. Good. It reminded her of Horus, whenever she took a bite. She missed her husband so much.

She needed a new source of income. But what could she, a lone woman, do with a large farm and acres of land? Selling the place came to mind, but then she'd be homeless, and the gold would only last her for so long. As a last resort, she could crawl back to her mother, and mooch for money, something the vixen had vowed to never do.

No. There had to be another way. Cassidy wouldn't betray her father's legacy, no matter what. Running low on food and on options, it was as though a miracle had happened, when the answer to her problems presented itself on a wooden platform in the center of the hamlet. A slaver selling a kobold. Business as usual for some. A life-changing event for the vixen.

Using the last of the money she had left, Cassidy bought the slave. Chained it up in the stables. Inviting a few other kobolds, it wasn't long until the slave became pregnant. Selling authentic kobold breastmilk, the vulpine was able to afford a second slave. And then a third. The fourth, a male, she caught herself. It's not like they had any rights. All she had to do was wrangle them, tie them up, and the rest was history.

Epilogue: Clear skies

Meat. Eggs, or milk depending on whether they were purebred or mutts. The profits weren't great, but more than plenty to live off of. Costs were exceedingly low. A bit of hay, a few morsels of stale bread every now and again. They didn't need much. Kobolds proved to be the perfect cattle for a lone vulpine rancher. They were small, weak, pliable and dumb enough to easily keep under control.

Cassidy made sure that her livestock knew she was in control. More than once, she cracked a riding crop to maintain order. She became far more dominant and assertive. Self-confident, to the point where she willfully eschewed clothing, preferring to walk around naked. And while she'd never admit it, not even to herself, she ended up preferring the company of certain kobolds, over the presence of more advanced species.

A few were sold as pets or slaves, some remained as breeders and cows, a lot were taken by the butcher and carved up for meat. Others were keepers, the vixen's own little group of favorites. Although she was still young, it seemed that Cassidy had finally found her way in life. She didn't have much to be proud of, but at least she had her kobolds. And in a way, they had her, too. They all hated it at first, but some came to love their mistress, almost as much as she loved them.

Diamonde

Diamonde is the daughter of king Alexandr and queen Jade, who once presided over the Western Dragon Kingdom, part of the draconic empire. The sole child of the ruling dynasty, the eastern-looking dragoness was groomed from birth to succeed her parents. She was their perfect little gem, cherished and loved, fostered and coddled. One day, she would become the queen or so she was told every night when getting tucked in by her caretakers.

All of that changed the night the nomads invaded. The palace guards were powerless to stop the band of massive, imposing, savage pureblood dragons from rampaging through the estate. They indiscriminately slaughtered all in their path, save for the few women they felt fit to violate in other ways. The commotion woke the princess up, but before she managed to lock the door to her chambers, one of the ruffians had already found his way inside of her room. For a little bit, Diamonde feared she was going to get killed. Later on, she would come to wish that she had died, that fateful night.

The young dragoness was taken to her parents, who had likewise become prisoners of war. In front of their daughter's innocent eyes, they were brutally tortured, raped and eventually beheaded by the tribesmen. The traumatized maiden herself was handed to the warchief's son, named Onyx Khan. Taking her back to her own room, the pureblood had his way with Diamonde, the sheer size difference between the two, combined with the painfully unique shape of his member ensuring that nothing went over as easy as it should have.

In the span of a few hours, the queen-to-be had lost her kingdom, her parents, her virginity, her innocence and her will to live. But her deathwish was not granted. The invaders still had use of her. After a sleepless night, while she was still in the middle of mourning her family, the girl was forcibly dressed in a crude tribal gown, before getting married against her will to the very dragon that had claimed her body.

At first, she didn't understand why. Why the hell did the brute want to marry her? Let alone in a civilized church, in front of an ordained priest of Armok. When she realized she was about to be wed against her will, her mind had conceived some savage, carnal tent-camp ritual. But, besides the tribals' hollering and hooting, cheering for their comrade while making fun of the priest and the princess both, it was almost a regular wedding. Why were they suddenly so keen on adapting to impure dragon standards? What was in it for them?

That question was answered, when at the end of the degrading ceremony, a crown was brought to the blood-filled bowl altar. Diamonde knew that crown all too well. It was her father's. And now, with his death, it was supposed to be hers. But she was not getting crowned that day. No, her new husband was appointed the king of the western dragon realm, while his pretty wife was completely brushed aside, entirely forgotten overnight by the easily swayed populace. She might as well have been dead, for all the outside world cared.

The powerless queen was left to grieve and wallow in sorrow, while king Onyx bent laws, councils, generals, guilds and entire cities to his will. Apart from having a nubile, impure little draconic trophy to toy with at night, he was as uninterested in Diamonde as she was in him. While he took pleasure in ruining her body for lesser males by forcing her to take more and more of his oversized member with every passing day, the newly crowned ruler preferred to spend his time with other pureblooded lizards. Especially the women of his tribe grew newfound appreciation for the chief's son turned king.

Again, change came from an unexpected angle. Several months after Onyx' coronation, Diamonde's belly began to swell. She was pregnant. Not allowed to see any man but her husband, there was no doubt that he was the father. She was carrying a savage child. The queen desperately wanted to detest the baby growing within her. It was the offspring of the man she hated above all. But maternal instincts are hard to fight. She couldn't find it in her heart to fault her unborn child.

Onyx, too, was slowly coming around to becoming a father. Sure, he'd probably knocked up half a dozen tribeswomen by now, but none of those kids would eventually come to replace him. It was only his royal spouse's offspring that could become the heir to his newly acquired kingdom, not the many bastards he'd sired. And crossbreed or not, he felt like that made this unborn child special.

Gradually, the king began to treat his wife as less than a fucktoy, and more of an actual woman. After being confined to her room for oh-so-long, Diamonde was finally allowed to roam the palace grounds freely once more. She had hoped some of the old guards would still be around, so she could maybe try to organize a revolution of some sort. But alas, the entire estate was filled with nothing but savages and bootlickers, and it wasn't like a pregnant woman could do much on her own, especially not against brutes more than twice her size.

Comparing the queen to her husband was like comparing a kobold to a regular dragon. Almost every night, she was surprised anew by just how much of his massive member he could cram inside of her. Now that she was pregnant, Onyx' fucking was growing more tender with every passing day, at least compared to how brutal and at times downright violent he'd been with her up until then. Still, Diamonde was unsure if he was simply concerned for the baby's wellbeing, or if he was actually opening up to her. Whatever the case, it was nice to have some foreplay, for once. And for being a gigantic killing machine, the former tribal warrior did have a hint of grace to him when fondling her sensitive, lactating breasts.

For the first time ever, Diamonde began to feel pleasure while getting fucked by Onyx. Perhaps it was the extra attention he paid to her body, or maybe it was the added hormones driving her crazy. Regardless, the queen found herself moaning and writhing in pleasure instead of in pain. For a split-second before he finished, Diamonde event felt a hint of affection towards her husband. Probably just a heat of the moment thing. She could never grow to love the man that killed her parents and usurped her kingdom. Although he was extraordinarly skilled with his hands and his tongue.

It wasn't too long after the first time that Onyx made love to Diamonde instead of selfishly pumping and dumping, that the queen gave birth to their first child together. It was a laborious delivery, the baby far too big for an ordinary dragon woman to handle, thanks to the father's pure-blooded genes. Tribal women lay eggs, but no such luck here. After the most painful twelve hours of her life, out came a beautiful, blue-scaled baby girl. Saphira, they decided to name her.

The king was enamored by his newborn daughter. For a few days, all he did was show the girl around the court, gleeful and overly proud of the fruit of his loins. Diamonde, meanwhile, was recovering in her room, unable to even walk for the following few days. But, despite his wife having just given birth, Onyx was as virile and as lusty as ever. Even before she could get on her feet, he was already bedding her once more, eager to put another bun in the oven.

And so, the powerless queen gave birth to three children in total, growing slightly closer to her abusive husband every time her belly began to swell. Eventually, she was allowed a spot next to him on the throne, although it was clear that her opinion was both unwanted and unvalued amidst the savages that were now in charge of the realm's affairs. Still, sitting in the throne room alone at the very least allowed her to dream about what could have been. And while she was growing less certain about whether or not she'd want things to be different, if given the chance to do it all over again, there was always a dim flame of ambition burning deep inside of her, a determination to see her birthright through, that would never falter, that would never fade.

Diamonde

Diamonde is the daughter of king Alexandr and queen Jade, who once presided over the Western Dragon Kingdom, part of the draconic empire. The sole child of the ruling dynasty, the eastern-looking dragoness was groomed from birth to succeed her parents. She was their perfect little gem, cherished and loved, fostered and coddled. One day, she would become the queen or so she was told every night when getting tucked in by her caretakers.

All of that changed the night the nomads invaded. The palace guards were powerless to stop the band of massive, imposing, savage pureblood dragons from rampaging through the estate. They indiscriminately slaughtered all in their path, save for the few women they felt fit to violate in other ways. The commotion woke the princess up, but before she managed to lock the door to her chambers, one of the ruffians had already found his way inside of her room. For a little bit, Diamonde feared she was going to get killed. Later on, she would come to wish that she had died, that fateful night.

The young dragoness was taken to her parents, who had likewise become prisoners of war. In front of their daughter's innocent eyes, they were brutally tortured, humiliated and eventually beheaded by the tribesmen. The traumatized maiden herself was handed to the warchief's son, named Onyx Khan. Taking her back to her own room, the pureblood had his way with Diamonde.

In the span of a few hours, the queen-to-be had lost her kingdom, her parents, her virginity, her innocence and her will to live. But her deathwish was not granted. The invaders still had use of her. After a sleepless night, while she was still in the middle of mourning her family, the girl was forcibly dressed in a crude tribal gown, before getting married against her will to the very dragon that had claimed her body.

At first, she didn't understand why. Why the hell did the brute want to marry her? Let alone in a civilized church, in front of an ordained priest of Armok. When she realized she was about to be wed against her will, her mind had conceived some savage, carnal tent-camp ritual. But, besides the tribals' hollering and hooting, cheering for their comrade while making fun of the priest and the princess both, it was almost a regular wedding. Why were they suddenly so keen on adapting to impure dragon standards? What was in it for them?

That question was answered, when at the end of the degrading ceremony, a crown was brought to the blood-filled bowl altar. Diamonde knew that crown all too well. It was her father's. And now, with his death, it was supposed to be hers. But she was not getting crowned that day. No, her new husband was appointed the king of the western dragon realm, while his pretty wife was completely brushed aside, entirely forgotten overnight by the easily swayed populace. She might as well have been dead, for all the outside world cared.

The powerless queen was left to grieve and wallow in sorrow, while king Onyx bent laws, councils, generals, guilds and entire cities to his will. Apart from having a nubile, impure little draconic trophy to toy with at night, he was as uninterested in Diamonde as she was in him. The newly crowned ruler preferred to spend his time with other pureblooded lizards. Especially the women of his tribe grew newfound appreciation for the chief's son turned king.

Again, change came from an unexpected angle. Several months after Onyx' coronation, Diamonde's belly began to swell. She was pregnant. Not allowed to see any man but her husband, there was no doubt that he was the father. She was carrying a savage child. The queen desperately wanted to detest the baby growing within her. It was the offspring of the man she hated above all. But maternal instincts are hard to fight. She couldn't find it in her heart to fault her unborn child.

Onyx, too, was slowly coming around to becoming a father. Sure, he'd probably knocked up half a dozen tribeswomen by now, but none of those kids would eventually come to replace him. It was only his royal spouse's offspring that could become the heir to his newly acquired kingdom, not the many bastards he'd sired. And crossbreed or not, he felt like that made this unborn child special.

Gradually, the king began to treat his wife as less than a toy, and more of an actual woman. After being confined to her room for oh-so-long, Diamonde was finally allowed to roam the palace grounds freely once more. She had hoped some of the old guards would still be around, so she could maybe try to organize a revolution of some sort. But alas, the entire estate was filled with nothing but savages and bootlickers, and it wasn't like a pregnant woman could do much on her own, especially not against brutes more than twice her size.

It wasn't too long after the onset of Onyx' kindness, that the queen gave birth to their first child together. It was a laborious delivery, the baby far too big for an ordinary dragon woman to handle, thanks to the father's pure-blooded genes. Tribal women lay eggs, but no such luck here. After the most painful twelve hours of her life, out came a beautiful, blue-scaled baby girl. Saphira, they decided to name her. The king was enamored by his newborn daughter. For a few days, all he did was show the girl around the court, gleeful and overly proud of the fruit of his loins. Diamonde, meanwhile, was recovering in her room, unable to even walk for the following few days.

With her husband as lusty as ever, the powerless queen ended up giving birth to three children in total, growing slightly closer to her abusive husband every time her belly began to swell. Eventually, she was allowed a spot next to him on the throne, although it was clear that her opinion was both unwanted and unvalued amidst the savages that were now in charge of the realm's affairs. Still, sitting in the throne room alone at the very least allowed her to dream about what could have been. And while she was growing less certain about whether or not she'd want things to be different, if given the chance to do it all over again, there was always a dim flame of ambition burning deep inside of her, a determination to see her birthright through, that would never falter, that would never fade.

Emeraude

Emeraude is the youngest child of king Onyx, the ruler of the western draconic kingdom. As the firstborn son, the young dragon is the rightful heir to his father's realm, despite having two older sisters. This does not sit well with the black-scaled monarch, who had groomed his oldest daughter, Saphira, to succeed him. Feeling threatened by the younger male, the patriarch has gone through extreme lengths, to ensure that his son will never grow strong enough to usurp the throne.

Emeraude's birth was a cause for great celebration for the king and his queen. Dragons are notoriously infertile, so for a royal couple to sire not one, but three successors, was an extraordinary feat in its own right. Still, after having spent years ensuring his favorite daughter would be fit to rule, the news that his latest child was a boy, and the implications that the baby's gender brought with, had the ruler predisposed against his own kin from the very start.

From a young age onwards, the dragon prince was secretly fed a constant supply of the feminizing agent known as FemPlus. The alchemically brewed liquid was poured into his bathwater, slipped into his food, and added to his drinks. His father was intent on turning him into a girl, so his older sister could claim the throne still. But, while having a visible effect on the boy's physique, the dosage simply wasn't enough to make him switch genders altogether. Thus, Emeraude grew up to be a weak, effeminate male, more soft than burly, with a curvy body that could easily be mistaken for that of a woman, were it not for his flat chest.

When Saphira was found fooling around with her sister, the favored sibling was sent away to Varanar. Onyx resorted to fucking Ruby straight, breeding her day-in, day-out, for an entire week on end, until she grew addicted to his cock. As his daughter learned to love the daily abuse, a wicked idea emerged in the king's mind. He could do the same to his girly son.

For the first time in his life, Emeraude experienced sex, not at the hands of a skilled courtesan, but in the form of his big, hunky father pinning him to his bed, mercilessly pounding his bubbly butt, while the adolescent boy begged for mercy. But instead of letting up, Onyx began to apply various aphrodisiacs and rub-in drugs, sinking the prince into an unwanted delirium of pleasure, rutting and mating until they were both fully spent.

And so, like he had done to Ruby, Onyx began to violate his son on a daily basis. All three of the boy's holes were repeatedly fucked, against his will. He was forced to serve, in every way imaginable. During each session, he was forced to down more FemPlus, fed enough aphrodisiac for a single touch to set him off, and drugged to the point of not even remembering his own name, broken down to his very core.

Unlike his sister, however, the green-scaled dragon hated every minute of his abuse. Emeraude didn't want this. He didn't want to be some girly boy that got off from getting his butt played with. He wanted to be a man, worthy of succeeding his father. But what the young lizard wanted, didn't matter one bit. The king's mind was made up. And over time, even Diamonde, the queen, grew convinced that feminizing her one and only son was the right course of action.

The lasting effects of the various substances the prince was forced to take, were rapidly starting to stack. Even during the sparse few days when Onyx was too busy to drug and rape his own son, the heir's girly body remained exceedingly sensitive. His sex drive was unusually high. He had frequent, dirty daydreams about getting molested, snapping awake out of sheer disdain for himself, cursing his mind for slowly beginning to accept his new place.

Were these changes permanent? Or would they fade, after some time away from his sadistic father? Was there a way to revert them, perhaps? The boy was uncertain. The only thing he know for sure, was that he'd never find out by staying at the palace. He had to leave. To flee. To vanish into the night, and never look back.

The green-scaled dragon would never relent to becoming a plaything for his patriarch. He was the prince of this land, and after the old man kicked the bucket, he would come to rule, no matter how much his family wanted him gone. He would not be denied his place, as the lawful successor of the west draconic kingdom. Alas, Emeraude's cock was rapidly shrinking, growing smaller with every passing day, the sheer volume of FemPlus he was made to drink finally sufficient to start altering more than just his lithe figure. A few months more, and his transformation would be complete, forfeiting his chance at the throne.

An opportunity for escape presented itself, in the form of Saphira returning from the human capital. For reasons unknown to him, the boy's sister was gathering a contingent of knights, with which to return to human lands. With their parents out of town, it was perfect timing. Emeraude snuck out of the palace, and bartered away a few family heirlooms in return for a horse and an old, rusty set of armor. Disguising himself as a knight, he joined the convoy to Varanar City, hoping to escape his father's grasp.

Emeraude

Emeraude is the youngest child of king Onyx, the ruler of the western draconic kingdom. As the firstborn son, the young dragon is the rightful heir to his father's realm, despite having two older sisters. This does not sit well with the black-scaled monarch, who had groomed his oldest daughter, Saphira, to succeed him. Feeling threatened by the younger male, the patriarch has gone through extreme lengths, to ensure that his son will never grow strong enough to usurp the throne.

Emeraude's birth was a cause for great celebration for the king and his queen. Dragons are notoriously infertile, so for a royal couple to sire not one, but three successors, was an extraordinary feat in its own right. Still, after having spent years ensuring his favorite daughter would be fit to rule, the news that his latest child was a boy, and the implications that the baby's gender brought with, had the ruler predisposed against his own kin from the very start.

From a young age onwards, the dragon prince was secretly fed a constant supply of the feminizing agent known as FemPlus. The alchemically brewed liquid was poured into his bathwater, slipped into his food, and added to his drinks. His father was intent on turning him into a girl, so his older sister could claim the throne still. But, while having a visible effect on the boy's physique, the dosage simply wasn't enough to make him switch genders altogether. Thus, Emeraude grew up to be a weak, effeminate male, more soft than burly, with a curvy body that could easily be mistaken for that of a woman, were it not for his flat chest.

When Saphira was found fooling around with her sister, the favored sibling was sent away to Varanar. Onyx spent more time with Ruby, to steer her onto the right path, keeping her company day-in, day-out, for an entire week on end, until she grew addicted to his presence. As his daughter turned out alright, an idea emerged in the king's mind. He could do the same to his girly son. Grow a bond with the boy, to prevent him from ever wanting to usurp the throne in the first place.

For the first time in his life, Emeraude was showered in attention, not by the many nurses and nannies, but by his big, hunky father, who walked him around town, showing him everything there was to see. But instead of letting his son take care of his own problems, the king was exceedingly overbearing, humiliating the growing prince more than once. The small lizard quickly grew to hate going on walks with his father. But, even against his will, he was forced to accompany the older dragon. During each outing, he was further humiliated and degraded, treated like a baby in public, in front of his future subjects.

Unlike his sister, the green-scaled dragon hated every minute of time spent with his patriarch. Emeraude didn't want this. He didn't want to be some coddled daddy's boy that never got his hands dirty. He wanted to be a man, worthy of succeeding his father. But what the heir wanted, didn't matter one bit. The king's mind was made up. And over time, even Diamonde, the queen, grew convinced that her husband spending more time with her one and only son was beneficial for the family.

The lasting effects of the malicious substances the prince was made to take, were rapidly starting to stack. His body was changing, growing more curvaceous and lithe. Were these changes permanent? Or would they fade, after some time without taking FemPlus? Was there a way to revert them, perhaps? The boy was uncertain. The only thing he know for sure, was that he'd never find out by staying at the palace. He had to leave. To flee. To vanish into the night, and never look back.

The green-scaled dragon would never relent to becoming a girl, so his sister could ascend the throne. He was the prince of this land, and after the old man kicked the bucket, he would come to rule, no matter how much his family wanted Saphira to. He would not be denied his place, as the lawful successor of the west draconic kingdom. But in order to retain the last remnants of his masculinity, he had to flee. A few months more, and his transformation would be complete, forfeiting his chance at the throne.

An opportunity for escape presented itself, in the form of Saphira returning from the human capital. For reasons unknown to him, the boy's sister was gathering a contingent of knights, with which to return to human lands. With their parents out of town, it was perfect timing. Emeraude snuck out of the palace, and bartered away a few family heirlooms in return for a horse and an old, rusty set of armor. Disguising himself as a knight, he joined the convoy to Varanar City, hoping to escape his father's grasp.

Erik Tolstand

Erik Tolstand is an ever-cheerful human brigand who never shies away from a pint of ale, a good fight or both. Together with his lupine childhood friend Fenrir, and with his feral dog Rex by his side, he leads an infamous gang known as the Furskin Mountain-Crew. A quote from the wolf, during one of their raids: "You see that friendly guy standing back there? The one with the smile. Looks nice enough, right? One gesture from me, and he'll put an arrow through your skull before you ever see it coming. Now, show me to your daughter's bedroom, and bring me a bottle of wine. I'll make her call me daddy, too."

Erik traumatically witnessed his parents perish at the hands of a group of lawmen at an early age. A minor kerfuffle that quickly grew out of hand. With only Rex, the loyal dog, left to protect him, he wandered the streets of his hometown looking for anyone that would take him in. Starving and parched, the orphaned child was taken in by a group of roaming outcasts. Over the coming few years, they would grow to become his new family.

The young human was taught how to hunt by his new comrades, eager to get him to pull his own weight. He showed a real knack for archery, drawing bows more than twice his own size! Every shot was on the mark. A natural, true-born talent. The canine, too, was a helpful asset out in the woods. Whatever animal Rex tracked, Erik killed. Thanks to their aid, the group never went hungry.

Eventually, the exiles roamed north, towards a small town called Furskin. Squatting in an abandoned house, they settled down for a small while to settle some affairs. And that's where Erik met Fenrir, a local wolf boy down on his luck. The coming weeks were the best in the human's young life thus far. For the first time ever, he'd found a friend his age. And it felt good, to play and fool around instead of worrying about survival all day, every day.

More and more, the town was starting to feel like home. But after an unfortunate incident, the outcasts, along with the young human, were driven away from their illicit household by an angry mob. Hounded relentlessly by the local lawmen, they got chased throughout the countryside, forced to migrate elsewhere or risk being put to the sword. Poor Erik was heartbroken. He'd finally had a taste of what it meant to live a normal life, only to have it torn away from him far too soon. Depressed, and upset with his family for forfeiting Furskin without a fight, the boy left the group, vanishing into a nearby forest overnight.

Most of his young adulthood, Erik spent living off the land. Honing his hunting technique, he poached deer, rabbits, foxes, ducks, boars and even a bear every now and again. He fashioned his own crude clothing along with a makeshift sleeping bag out of pelts, kept the largest bones for Rex, and always threw the pooch a slab of meat after having his own fill. Trading with a nearby village for salt, he could preserve some food for winter. As nights grew ever-colder, a few trees were felled and a hunting cabin was slowly erected over the course of several frigid days. A campfire felt twice as warm when enclosed.

For years on end, the hunter lived in self-imposed isolation, emerging from the forest only to barter for things the woods could not provide. While solitary subsistence was fulfilling and wholesome, Erik kept reminiscing about how things used to be, before he ran away. Particularly, his time spent at Furskin. He missed being around people, and he especially missed his one and only friend. Come morning time, after a compelling dream, the human packed up his things, and left his home in the woods, returning to civilization.

Due to a cruel twist of fate, Fenrir had set off on his bounty hunter adventures mere weeks before Erik's return to Furskin. Incapable of finding his old friend, the human felt even more dejected than before, blaming himself for waiting too long. After several days of constant drinking and booze-hounding, the former woodsman encountered a group of like-minded individuals hanging around the tavern. They shared tales about how they had been accosted by the guards. And that is when Erik realized: it was never his family who were in the wrong. The lawmen were at fault for driving them off in the first place!

Redirecting his hatred towards Furskin's garrison, the unshaven savage joined his new friends in raising hell across the town. Petty crimes of passion, mostly, but the more beer they drank, the more violent their infractions. A few days of non-stop troublemaking later, Erik came to his senses, laying naked in a pig pen next to Rex, his head hurting more than his arm that one time he got mauled by a bear. Remembering little of what he did during his stupor, one critical sentiment remained burned in his mind: fuck the guards.

With that attitude, the loner gathered his scattered drinking buddies, and together they plotted more heinous misdeeds. This marked the start of the Furskin Mountain-Crew, officially dubbed after they got booted out of town. Luckily, Erik knew enough about surviving in the wilderness to provide for all of them. From a makeshift fur-tent camp, their operations continued, the group swelling with numbers after a few successful heists and robberies. Having stolen booze to drink helped keep morale up, and no wandering trader could resist being lured in for a sip.

Getting back at society felt good, but there was still something missing. An aching, wolf-shaped hole in Erik's heart. For once, fate was with the hunter. After several years of doing crime, he woke to the sight of his long-lost soulmate sleeping next to his dog. Confirming his identity, Fenrir was embraced both by the human and by his group.

For nearly a decade, Fenrir and Erik terrorized the frigid wastes on the northern border of the human kingdom. Together with the rest of their crew, they killed, raped, stole and pillaged wherever they went. Despite their undeniably wicked ways, the two leaders always pretended like they were doing the right thing. Burn down a farmstead, violate a few maidens, stab the family's eldest son and pilfer enough food to last the group a month or two? All justified because the farmer employed slave labour, and after getting intimate with a few of the indebted servants, the rest were cut free. Such a noble action, or so the wolf and the human claimed to appease their followers.

A life of crime can't last forever. The guards were easy enough to outrun, but old age was rapidly catching up to the band of outlaws. Many of them weren't as spry and nimble as they were in their prime, and a collective urge to settle down and start a family was growing amidst the men. However, being notoriously well-known as thugs, thieves and murderers, it was very clear that the bandits would never be able to find peace without being hunted down by the law. They wanted to leave unlawfulness behind, but their past actions would haunt them until the day they died.

That is, until an interesting offer was brought up. Collect taxes for some spoiled noble in Varanar, and get an official pardon in return. The band of criminals went on one last pillaging spree, sacking towns and villages on their way to the capital, local guardsmen ordered to stand down on behalf of the royal crown. Taxation is theft, this time doubly so. With every new place they looted, Erik grew one step closer to telling Fenrir how he really felt.

But he never was one to talk about emotions and feelings. So his secret -- that he loves the wolf as more than a comrade in arms -- remains undisclosed to this very day. And that wraps up the tale of Erik. As to how Rex managed to grow this old without seemingly aging one bit? Perhaps the rumors of a well of eternal youth are not so far-fetched after all.

Erik Tolstand

Erik Tolstand is an ever-cheerful human brigand who never shies away from a pint of ale, a good fight or both. Together with his lupine childhood friend Fenrir, and with his feral dog Rex by his side, he leads an infamous gang known as the Furskin Mountain-Crew. A quote from the wolf, during one of their raids: "You see that friendly guy standing back there? The one with the smile. Looks nice enough, right? One gesture from me, and he'll put an arrow through your skull before you ever see it coming."

Erik traumatically witnessed his parents perish at the hands of a group of lawmen at an early age. A minor kerfuffle that quickly grew out of hand. With only Rex, the loyal dog, left to protect him, he wandered the streets of his hometown looking for anyone that would take him in. Starving and parched, the orphaned child was taken in by a group of roaming outcasts. Over the coming few years, they would grow to become his new family.

The young human was taught how to hunt by his new comrades, eager to get him to pull his own weight. He showed a real knack for archery, drawing bows more than twice his own size! Every shot was on the mark. A natural, true-born talent. The canine, too, was a helpful asset out in the woods. Whatever animal Rex tracked, Erik killed. Thanks to their aid, the group never went hungry.

Eventually, the exiles roamed north, towards a small town called Furskin. Squatting in an abandoned house, they settled down for a small while to settle some affairs. And that's where Erik met Fenrir, a local wolf boy down on his luck. The coming weeks were the best in the human's young life thus far. For the first time ever, he'd found a friend his age. And it felt good, to play and fool around instead of worrying about survival all day, every day.

More and more, the town was starting to feel like home. But after an unfortunate incident, the outcasts, along with the young human, were driven away from their illicit household by an angry mob. Hounded relentlessly by the local lawmen, they got chased throughout the countryside, forced to migrate elsewhere or risk being put to the sword. Poor Erik was heartbroken. He'd finally had a taste of what it meant to live a normal life, only to have it torn away from him far too soon. Depressed, and upset with his family for forfeiting Furskin without a fight, the boy left the group, vanishing into a nearby forest overnight.

Most of his young adulthood, Erik spent living off the land. Honing his hunting technique, he poached deer, rabbits, foxes, ducks, boars and even a bear every now and again. He fashioned his own crude clothing along with a makeshift sleeping bag out of pelts, kept the largest bones for Rex, and always threw the pooch a slab of meat after having his own fill. Trading with a nearby village for salt, he could preserve some food for winter. As nights grew ever-colder, a few trees were felled and a hunting cabin was slowly erected over the course of several frigid days. A campfire felt twice as warm when enclosed.

For years on end, the hunter lived in self-imposed isolation, emerging from the forest only to barter for things the woods could not provide. While solitary subsistence was fulfilling and wholesome, Erik kept reminiscing about how things used to be, before he ran away. Particularly, his time spent at Furskin. He missed being around people, and he especially missed his one and only friend. Come morning time, after a compelling dream, the human packed up his things, and left his home in the woods, returning to civilization.

Due to a cruel twist of fate, Fenrir had set off on his bounty hunter adventures mere weeks before Erik's return to Furskin. Incapable of finding his old friend, the human felt even more dejected than before, blaming himself for waiting too long. After several days of constant drinking and booze-hounding, the former woodsman encountered a group of like-minded individuals hanging around the tavern. They shared tales about how they had been accosted by the guards. And that is when Erik realized: it was never his family who were in the wrong. The lawmen were at fault for driving them off in the first place!

Redirecting his hatred towards Furskin's garrison, the unshaven savage joined his new friends in raising hell across the town. Petty crimes of passion, mostly, but the more beer they drank, the more violent their infractions. A few days of non-stop troublemaking later, Erik came to his senses, laying naked in a pig pen next to Rex, his head hurting more than his arm that one time he got mauled by a bear. Remembering little of what he did during his stupor, one critical sentiment remained burned in his mind: fuck the guards.

With that attitude, the loner gathered his scattered drinking buddies, and together they plotted more heinous misdeeds. This marked the start of the Furskin Mountain-Crew, officially dubbed after they got booted out of town. Luckily, Erik knew enough about surviving in the wilderness to provide for all of them. From a makeshift fur-tent camp, their operations continued, the group swelling with numbers after a few successful heists and robberies. Having stolen booze to drink helped keep morale up, and no wandering trader could resist being lured in for a sip.

Getting back at society felt good, but there was still something missing. An aching, wolf-shaped hole in Erik's heart. For once, fate was with the hunter. After several years of doing crime, he woke to the sight of his long-lost soulmate sleeping next to his dog. Confirming his identity, Fenrir was embraced both by the human and by his group.

For nearly a decade, Fenrir and Erik terrorized the frigid wastes on the northern border of the human kingdom. Together with the rest of their crew, they killed, stole and pillaged wherever they went. Despite their undeniably wicked ways, the two leaders always pretended like they were doing the right thing. Burn down a farmstead, violate a few maidens, stab the family's eldest son and pilfer enough food to last the group a month or two? All justified because the farmer employed slave labour. Such a noble action, or so the wolf and the human claimed to appease their followers.

A life of crime can't last forever. The guards were easy enough to outrun, but old age was rapidly catching up to the band of outlaws. Many of them weren't as spry and nimble as they were in their prime, and a collective urge to settle down and start a family was growing amidst the men. However, being notoriously well-known as thugs, thieves and murderers, it was very clear that the bandits would never be able to find peace without being hunted down by the law. They wanted to leave unlawfulness behind, but their past actions would haunt them until the day they died.

That is, until an interesting offer was brought up. Collect taxes for some spoiled noble in Varanar, and get an official pardon in return. The band of criminals went on one last pillaging spree, sacking towns and villages on their way to the capital, local guardsmen ordered to stand down on behalf of the royal crown. Taxation is theft, this time doubly so. With every new place they looted, Erik grew one step closer to telling Fenrir how he really felt.

But he never was one to talk about emotions and feelings. So his secret -- that he loves the wolf as more than a comrade in arms -- remains undisclosed to this very day. And that wraps up the tale of Erik. As to how Rex managed to grow this old without seemingly aging one bit? Perhaps the rumors of a well of eternal youth are not so far-fetched after all.

Fenri

Fenri Greyfur is the new name of a big, bad wolf after he gets addicted to FemPlus potions, to the point of turning into a woman. The kobold can get captured by Fenrir prior to his transformation, and depending on your actions, he may or may not end up becoming a bitch. During the second day of their enslavement, the captive lizard is offered a choice between taking FemPlus or mPlus, but only if they were cooperative enough up to that point. This seemingly innocuous decision can have dire consequences for Fenrir.

If the kobold picks neither of the gender-bending potions, then nothing changes. If they, however, choose one or the other, then the lupine will keep the remaining vial for himself. He chugs the liquid, and rapidly grows addicted to it. In secret, he buys as much of the stuff as he possibly can, to sate his transformative urge. By the time the caravan arrives at Varanar, his groin has either swollen considerably, or been reduced down to a pathetic size.

By the end of the third day of enslavement, the wolf's transformation will be complete. Fenri is the result of the kobold taking the mPlus potion. A bit less secure about her body than when she was a man, the wolfess is still more than capable of swinging her massive mace around with lethal results. While she remains the Furskin Mountain-Crew's top dog, her underlings will definitely need some time to come to terms with their leader's new appearance. There will be plenty of cruel pranks, crude jokes, and perhaps even some more severe turmoil, before she will be fully accepted by the group.

Since Fenri's backstory will heavily depend on the kobold's actions, the remainder of this character sheet will detail how Fenrir lost his anal virginity.

Fenrir, prior to meeting Moe, has only had submissive sex twice in his entire life. The first time, was back when he was still a bounty hunter. Most targets were no match for the might of the big wolf. But, near the end of that particular career path, he was tasked with hunting down an impressively large bear. Thinking the ursine would be no match for his mace, the lupine barged into the safehouse where the bandit was supposedly staying.

Stern words were exchanged. The canine readied his weapon. However, the fugitive took his opponent by surprise, displaying incredible speed and agility, every bit as impressive as his massive strength. Before Fenrir could even take a swing at him, he was already right in the wolf's face, nullifying the mace, turning it into a useless twig, which the criminal promptly slapped out of the bounty hunter's hands.

That is when the real fight began. Flabbergasted and slightly panicking, the wolf swung at the much larger man. First a fist, then a slashing swipe. Neither got through the bear's thick hide, which seemed even tougher than the leather armor the canine wore. After the fearsome predator had taken a few more ineffective shots, the chuckling bandit decided it was time to retaliate.

With only one of his big, broad, burly hands, the ursine grabbed Fenrir by the throat. So impressively strong was he, that he managed to lift the grown wolf off the ground, without so much as breaking a sweat. Choking, and in full-on panic mode, Fenrir struggled, kicked and impotently clawed at the arm holding him. But it was all in vain, achieving nothing but slightly discomforting the thug.

The bounty hunter had finally found someone who was more than a match for him. The bear roughly threw him onto the ground, the back of his head banging against the side of a table on the way down, dazing the canine to the point of almost knocking him out. While the lupine was still reeling from the blow, the bear leisurely took off his own pants, a hefty bulge coming into view, tucked away inside of a pair of well-worn briefs.

Right as Fenrir was on the verge of collecting his senses, the air was knocked out of his lungs yet again. The heavy-weight ursine took a seat, directly on top of his chest. His ribcage struggled to hold the massive burden of bear ass, life quite literally being squeezed out of the bounty hunter. Yet again about to pass out, the bandit showed mercy by slightly lifting his own body, allowing Fenrir to breathe.

There was only one caveat. At the same time, the big man pressed his clothed bulge against the canine's snout. A balled up fist was all the threat the wolf needed, to know that his very life was on the line. So he reluctantly inhaled, and then again, and again, huffing the bear's loins with every breath he took, his mind growing confused by the thick, masculine stench drowning out all rational thought. Primal canine instincts kicked in, demanding him to submit to this better male, to the new alpha.

But the lupine was not yet ready to surrender. He still had one ace up his sleeve. The bear had lowered his guard. With a twist of his body, Fenrir managed to throw the weighty bandit off of him! On all fours, the wolf desperately began to crawl away, headed for the door. But the moment he reached for the doorknob, his face was crudely pushed down to the floor. The ursine had caught up. And he was done playing games.

In a single swift motion, the outlaw tore off Fenrir's pants, before removing his own underwear. Keeping the wolf pinned with one of his hands, he used the other to guide his fully erect shaft towards its mark. "Bitch." After uttering that single word, he slowly sunk his thick member inside of the canine, taking Fenrir's submissive virginity. The lupine let out not a growl, but a meek whimper, as for the first time in his life, he was on the receiving end of a firm, and steady pounding. But the thing that got his dick hard, wasn't being treated like a cheap piece of ass. No, it was only when the bear rubbed his freshly worn underwear in the wolf's face, that the overpowered bounty hunter grew hard, stopped resisting, and began to melt away underneath the ursine's humping.

Hours later, after having fully enjoyed every single part of the canine's body, the bandit left Fenrir in a steaming puddle of mixed bear and wolf cum. And that's the story of the first time he bottomed for another man. Not wanting to admit to himself how much he enjoyed that encounter, the lupine has been overcompensating with an air radiating pure dominance ever since, to the point where he himself can no longer discern whether he's putting up a tough act, or if he's legitimately the big, bad wolf everyone sees him as.

The only time he's let his emotional guard down since, was when meeting Erik again, after all those years. An evening of celebration and revelry ended in a bout of drunken sex. But both of them pretend they don't remember that night, if just to ward off awkward conversations.

Fenri

Fenri Greyfur is the new name of a big, bad wolf after he gets addicted to FemPlus potions, to the point of turning into a woman. The kobold can get captured by Fenrir prior to his transformation, and depending on your actions, he may or may not end up becoming a bitch. During the second day of their enslavement, the captive lizard is offered a choice between taking FemPlus or mPlus, but only if they were cooperative enough up to that point. This seemingly innocuous decision can have dire consequences for Fenrir.

If the kobold picks neither of the gender-bending potions, then nothing changes. If they, however, choose one or the other, then the lupine will keep the remaining vial for himself. He chugs the liquid, and rapidly grows addicted to it. In secret, he buys as much of the stuff as he possibly can, to sate his transformative urge. By the time the caravan arrives at Varanar, his groin has either swollen considerably, or been reduced down to a pathetic size.

By the end of the third day of enslavement, the wolf's transformation will be complete. Fenri is the result of the kobold taking the mPlus potion. A bit less secure about her body than when she was a man, the wolfess is still more than capable of swinging her massive mace around with lethal results. While she remains the Furskin Mountain-Crew's top dog, her underlings will definitely need some time to come to terms with their leader's new appearance. There will be plenty of cruel pranks, crude jokes, and perhaps even some more severe turmoil, before she will be fully accepted by the group.

The remainder of this character sheet details an event from Fenrir's past. Sadly, this event is pretty darn not safe for work, so if you want to read about it, you'll have to switch to the NSFW version of the sheet.

Fenrir

Part one: Home, sweet home

Fenrir Greyfur is a big, bad wolf, who may end up capturing, spanking, fucking and even enslaving the kobold, depending on your choices. A scoundrel through-and-through, he's no stranger to fighting and brawling. With years of fighting experience, his strong arms and heavy mace can make short work of anyone who stands in his way, although he's starting to grow old, and his reflexes aren't as sharp as they used to be.

Fenrir was born to a pair of canine parents in the small town of Furskin, located in a mountain-range far northeast of Varanar, past the vast forest surrounding half of the city. It is here, that the river which flows through the human capital originates from, and it is here that the wolf's tale begins.

Being smugglers, Fenrir's parents never had much time on their hands to look after their only child. They were always busy running wares in and out of town, meeting with shady characters and dealing in illicit goods. Since his mom and dad were never around, the canine looked towards the neighbours whenever he needed help. But going door to door, he soon found out that most members of the tight-knit community were very reluctant to lend a hand. The reputation of his mother and father preceded him, and everywhere the little boy went, he was blamed for their actions.

Only one family took pity on the grey-furred whelp. A small band of humans, not necessarily blood-related, squatting in an abandoned house on the outskirts of Furskin. Being rejects and runaways themselves, they knew how tough it was to grow up alone and with nobody around. They gave him some warm food, and a place to stay during the lonely nights that his parents were gone. He slept downstairs, with the feral dog they kept, but it was still warmer and more comfortable than sleeping alone in his empty home.

Over the course of several weeks, Fenrir grew close to one of the boys staying with the group of exiles. A dapper human chap called Erik, who had lost his parents. Master of Rex, the dog, the only one he had left. He reminded the wolf of himself, and Erik's positive outlook always brightened the canine's day. They became best friends, and together, they braved the perils of the small town. They scaled buildings, explored alleyways, held mock sword-fights with sticks, and teased the local girls. It felt great, having someone to talk to, someone to confide in, someone who was there for him. All was well, for the few months that the presence of the disparate outsiders was tolerated.

But then, one night that his parents were home, one of the castaways was caught stealing. An angry mob formed in the middle of the town. The people of Furskin were done abiding the outsiders' presence. While Fenrir slept soundly in his own bed, his sanctuary away from home was burned to the ground. His only friends, including Erik, were driven far away, never to return. Come morning, the canine's mother and father were off to run their latest batch of illegal wares, and he was left alone to discover what had transpired over the night. Once more, he was forsaken.

Back to begging the neighbours for help. Back to being ridiculed and demeaned. Treated like a hellspawn, discriminated against because of the sins of his parents. Constantly being treated as a pariah, and an outcast, the wolf's once-cheerful, naive demeanour soon deteriorated. He grew bitter, and resentful towards the other people living in Furskin. Being denied the love and care that every child should be entitled to, the young rascal learned to fend for himself the hard way. Going hungry taught him to steal. Getting caught taught him to fight. Losing fights, he learned to take a blow and come out swinging.

Part two: The boy becomes a man

Growing into puberty, Fenrir had become a fully-fledged ruffian, muscling local merchants out of food and money, threatening to kick their asses and trash their stores unless they gave him what he wanted. What was more valuable, those few coins and the couple of fruits and pieces of meat he demanded, or their entire shop and every bone in their body? Most saw reason, and relented to the young canine's demands. Others needed a bit more persuasion before giving in.

Wolves as a whole are characterized by an insatiable libido, always eager and willing to have sex with whatever bitches they can get their hands on. A stereotype very much so based in reality. It's a simple result of their predatory biology. A basic need to propagate their species. Before the dawn of civilization, the males of tribes of wolves did three things, and three things only. They hunted, they ate, and they fucked. And to this day, that much remains true for more than a few of them.

Fenrir was no exception to this. The closer he got to adulthood, the more lusty and lewd his stick-ups became, his mind a slave to his evolving body. A housewife here, a merchant's daughter there, a few times he even had to show one of the men some humility. What better way to break a man's spirit than by breaking in his behind? And of course, nobody was eager to admit that their pride had been taken from them. It was their little secret. And as long they kept feeding the wolf his daily meals, and gave him unrestricted access to the female members of their families, it wouldn't have to happen again.

While having frequent sex did little to alleviate the crushing loneliness that weighed the canine down, at least things were better now than they were when he was still a whelp. Being able to take what he wanted, instead of having to beg for it, allowed the wolf to lead a decent life for several years on end. Luxuries were few and sparse, but he had all he needed, and he could always wrestle a pint or two out of the local barkeep when feeling down.

Part three: Father

All of this changed, when one fateful day, a smuggling run went awry, and Fenrir's father was killed by a rival gang. His mother came home, wounded and devastated. He tended to her, consoled her, and driven by the bestial urge to become the new alpha male of the pack, he made love to her. They knew it was wrong, but it was in their nature. Fenrir and his mom were both animals, at heart. They decided not to fight their feelings, and thus, the wolf succeeded his father.

She needed help. A few more runs, and then she'd be set to retire. He couldn't turn his own mother down. Roped into the smuggling business, the canine ran a few carriages of an exotic drug imported from the east, transporting it from Furskin to a town in the Dragon Empire down south. The guy he delivered it to insisted he had a taste of the stuff, claiming it was customary, to ensure it wasn't poisoned or otherwise tampered with along the way. One snort was all it took for Fenrir to get hooked.

A few more runs turned into an entire year of smuggling. The more product he helped himself to, the less he was paid. In between deliveries, he stopped by his mother's place, to keep her company. Although her body had healed, she wasn't interested in picking up her old ways. The death of her husband scared her away from a life of crime. That, and something else.

She was pregnant. Fenrir was going to be a father...and a brother. Upon hearing those words, a spark lit up in his drug-glazed eyes. The wolf underneath the mind-numbing substances began to surface. He quit being a smuggler. They had enough money to last themselves for a while, and then they'd see what happened. Slowly, but surely, he built down his drug usage, his appetite for narcotics shrinking along with his hidden stash. By the time the baby was born, he was clean. Sober. A new man. A father.

Part four: More to life

Coasting along on the money made from smuggling, the lupine, his mother and their child lived happily for the better half of a decade. He raised his son, teaching the little pup how to walk, talk, climb, fish, run and even fight. That last part was especially needed, since the rascal couldn't keep his hands to himself, always stealing things and getting into trouble. Just like his old man, back in the day.

Fenrir did some odd jobs here and there. He spent some time working as a lumberjack, a miner, a bartender and even a construction worker, but the paltry sums he made were nothing compared to what even a single run used to net him. There was always the urge to return to his old ways, but he vowed to stay away from the stuff that had almost ruined him. While spending time with his son was nice, this simple life was not cut out for him. He needed to do something more exciting. He had to feel alive, instead of being stuck in some small, dreary town where hardly anything ever happened.

Leaving his birthplace behind, the wolf found the one profession that'd add some thrill to his life, while still being legal. He became a wandering bounty hunter, wielding a heavy mace, passed down to him from his father, to spread justice across the land. He solely tracked down criminals and fugitives, trying to make up for his own wrongdoings. But all too soon, he realized that many of the people he hunted, were a spitting image of himself when he was younger. Boys and girls, with nothing to lose, whose only options were to steal, to rob or to kill to survive. It was all they knew. And once upon a time, it was all Fenrir knew as well. He understood what it was like, so he could not take them in.

Refusing to arrest many of his quarries, the canine's rising fame as an up-and-coming bounty hunter was all but swept away under the rug, his good name tarnished by his compassion for petty criminals. Instead of getting to chase after bandits, Fenrir was reduced to tracking down missing people. But it wasn't the same. Finding someone was a far cry away from fighting and catching outlaws. Half of the time, they'd gone missing in the woods, or they'd taken a wrong turn and ended up in another town. Hardly exciting, to track down people who aren't trying to hide. Eventually, he gave up, and began to roam the lands without reason or cause.

Once more, the lupine turned to booze and to women, to ease his conflicted mind, and to spice up his life a little. Whatever city, town, or hamlet he visited, he always found a willing bitch or two to pop his knot into. He sired more pups than he could count, although he rarely stuck around in one place for more than a few nights. There was one quaint little village he spent a year or two in. Triplets, and a noble lady with a lot of money to her name. A real demon in the sack, too. It felt nice, to live a life of luxury, for a while. But his wanderlust had not yet been sated. Eventually, he ventured out once more.

Part five: A forgotten friend

Laying low for a while, Fenrir's name had all but been forgotten. As far as the world was concerned, the old him, the one that screwed up job after job, had vanished. He could start anew. A second chance at becoming a proper bounty hunter. And this time, he wasn't going to let his feelings get in the way. His first mark: a human at the head of a small gang, robbing trade caravans near his home town. Wanted dead, not alive. The canine hadn't seen his own son in years. A perfect opportunity.

The wolf infiltrated the bandits' camp. He found the tent of their leader. Readying his mace, he prepared to strike the slumbering human. Suddenly, a noise. Growling. A dog. Fenrir didn't even have to turn his head. He could smell it. A familiar scent. Rex?

Erik. He'd been sent to kill his old best friend. Even the dog that he used to sleep with was still around. The beast must have been at least thirty years old by now. Impressive. He couldn't do it. They were friends. The wolf put aside his mace, gave the dog a few pats, and curled up beside it, like the good old days. Like the way things used to be. Everything was so much simpler back then. Slowly, but surely, he drifted into an uncomfortable sleep, dreaming of his childhood.

Awakening with half a dozen swords aimed at his throat, Fenrir awkwardly explained who he was. It took a bit of convincing, but ultimately Erik believed his tale. His identity made clear, the canine was greeted with open arms. Over food and drinks, the human and him shared half a lifetime worth of tales and exploits. At the end of a long, wild night, a proposition was made. If he joined the gang, he wouldn't have to start at the bottom. He could lead it, together with the human. Or, he could do what he was sent there to do, and they could have one of those mock swordfights they used to have, only this time, for real. The choice was his.

If Fenrir wanted to kill Erik, he'd have caved the bandit's skull in while he slept. Likewise, if Erik wanted Fenrir dead, the bounty hunter's throat would have been cut open before he awoke. So fighting was out of the question. If the wolf left empty-handed, he'd be right back to looking for lost kids in the woods. That wasn't an option either. He'd been down that hole, never again. So, he did the only thing he could. He took the offer. He became the co-leader of the Furskin Mountain-Crew. Not the most original of names, but it left little to the imagination.

Part six: The old guard

Over the years, the Furskin Mountain-Crew, along with their new leader, raided caravans and extorted small business all over the countryside. Fenrir felt like he was young again. For the first time in ages, he felt truly alive. Gone were the lonely days of old. His gangmembers, while technically his subordinates, grew to be his friends.

They raped, pillaged and kidnapped their way throughout the land, ransoming the few wenches unlucky enough to fall into their clutches back for moderate sums of money. They weren't in it for the gold. They did this for fun. Sure, they needed money for food and supplies and to keep everyone moderately happy, but to Erik and Fenrir, this was just them having a good time together. This was the ideal life, for both of them. Chasing risks, getting into brawls, fucking women and men alike, whether they want to or not. They were similar, in that regard. Both rebels, born to live and die as free men.

Slowly, but steadily, an unfamiliar urge grew inside of the wolf. His wanderlust was fading. Raping and robbing was fun, but he felt like he'd seen it all. He wanted to get out. To quit the gang. To stop adventuring. To settle down, be it at Furskin, in that village where his noble woman resides, or maybe even somewhere else with someone new.

But he couldn't. Criminals can't simply stop being criminals. Unless he travelled half the world away, he would never be able to return to a normal life. Bounty hunters and lawmen would trouble him until the end of his days. And if he ran away, that'd mean he'd never see any of his children again. No, he'd continue being a bandit. For the time being, at least. He still had a few good years in him, and a few scores to settle with the drug-runners that got him addicted a long time ago.

The Furskin Mountain-Crew couldn't last forever. Fenrir knew it, Erik knew it, heck, everyone in the camp knew it. The wolf and the human were growing old. Soft. Too gentle and kind and forgiving for this cut-throat world. While their arms were still strong, their reflexes were waning. It was only a matter of time. One of the leaders getting killed, a local lord sending an armed contingent to deal with them, a bigger gang taking notice and forcing them to join or die, all very realistic scenarios which would lead to the crew's disbandment. Some of the men wagered on what would come first. But what happened next, was something nobody could have predicted.

Part seven: The beginning of the end

A message, from the baron of Varanar, the regent of the entire human kingdom, delivered by a group of knights massive enough to make declining his offer seem like folly. A chance at a new life. One job. All they had to do was one job, and their crimes would be forgiven. Complete amnesty, along with some hefty compensation, in return for the gang's services.

Emergency taxes were being raised, more than ever before. The populace would not stand for this. Heck, Fenrir himself was slightly disgusted when he read the numbers on the missive. The baron knew the people would not like this. They would not easily be parted from their hard-earned gold. He couldn't claim it himself. They'd fight back. Riot. Revolt. And that's where the Furskin Mountain-Crew, along with dozens of other gangs all over the kingdom came into play.

They would collect the money. Make it look like a bandit raid. Take enough valuables and gold out of town to meet the quota, put all of the loot into carriages, and deliver it to Varanar. The guards were told not to intervene. The townsfolk, while numerous, were no match for a determined group of outlaws, murderers and rapists. They took as much as they needed, and not a coin more. Fenrir didn't partake in the looting. That wasn't who he was. Not anymore, at least. Instead, he slipped off to visit his family. His son looked so much like him. And his mom, despite the passing of time having taken away much of the vibrancy of her fur, still looked as beautiful as ever.

One final trip. They headed out to meet up with the caravan master. A man of the realm, sent to oversee their operation. Bartholomew Grabgold. A real prick. He knew how to get under Fenrir's skin. Erik had to remind his partner what was at stake, more than once. If either the gold or Mister Barto did not make it back to town, they'd be hunted down and put to the sword. Even Rex, the dog, was no fan of their latest guest.

The wagons filled to the brim with gold, the group departed for Varanar. Some of the men were interested only in the monetary reward. Others, like Fenrir, wanted to use the pardon granted to quit the outlaw life. A few more spat at the idea of no longer being wanted. They couldn't imagine life without being constantly hunted. The adrenaline kept them going. The thought of not waking up in the morning drove them on, day by day.

Erik was the only one of the group which had not yet made up his mind. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, for sure, but he wasn't sure whether or not he was ready to leave his bandit ways behind him. While he'd never cared to admit it, he always saw Fenrir as more than just a friend. He was certain that the wolf would never reciprocate his feelings. Being in a gang together with his secret love was more than he could ever have dreamed of, but now, that was coming to an end. He needed more time to think. Hopefully, he'd have an answer once they got to Varanar. Maybe he could even muster up the courage to explain his feelings by then. But that much was still uncertain.

Fenrir

Part one: Home, sweet home

Fenrir Greyfur is a big, bad wolf, who may end up capturing, spanking, and even enslaving the kobold, depending on your choices. A scoundrel through-and-through, he's no stranger to fighting and brawling. With years of fighting experience, his strong arms and heavy mace can make short work of anyone who stands in his way, although he's starting to grow old, and his reflexes aren't as sharp as they used to be.

Fenrir was born to a pair of canine parents in the small town of Furskin, located in a mountain-range far northeast of Varanar, past the vast forest surrounding half of the city. It is here, that the river which flows through the human capital originates from, and it is here that the wolf's tale begins.

Being smugglers, Fenrir's parents never had much time on their hands to look after their only child. They were always busy running wares in and out of town, meeting with shady characters and dealing in illicit goods. Since his mom and dad were never around, the canine looked towards the neighbours whenever he needed help. But going door to door, he soon found out that most members of the tight-knit community were very reluctant to lend a hand. The reputation of his mother and father preceded him, and everywhere the little boy went, he was blamed for their actions.

Only one family took pity on the grey-furred whelp. A small band of humans, not necessarily blood-related, squatting in an abandoned house on the outskirts of Furskin. Being rejects and runaways themselves, they knew how tough it was to grow up alone and with nobody around. They gave him some warm food, and a place to stay during the lonely nights that his parents were gone. He slept downstairs, with the feral dog they kept, but it was still warmer and more comfortable than sleeping alone in his empty home.

Over the course of several weeks, Fenrir grew close to one of the boys staying with the group of exiles. A dapper human chap named Erik, who had lost his parents. Master of Rex, the dog, the only one he had left. He reminded the wolf of himself, and Erik's positive outlook always brightened the canine's day. They became best friends, and together, they braved the perils of the small town. They scaled buildings, explored alleyways, held mock sword-fights with sticks, and teased the local girls. It felt great, having someone to talk to, someone to confide in, someone who was there for him. All was well, for the few months that the presence of the disparate outsiders was tolerated.

But then, one night that his parents were home, one of the castaways was caught stealing. An angry mob formed in the middle of the town. The people of Furskin were done abiding the outsiders' presence. While Fenrir slept soundly in his own bed, his sanctuary away from home was burned to the ground. His only friends, including Erik, were driven far away, never to return. Come morning, the canine's mother and father were off to run their latest batch of illegal wares, and he was left alone to discover what had transpired over the night. Once more, he was forsaken.

Back to begging the neighbours for help. Back to being ridiculed and demeaned. Treated like a hellspawn, discriminated against because of the sins of his parents. Constantly being treated as a pariah, and an outcast, the wolf's once-cheerful, naive demeanour soon deteriorated. He grew bitter, and resentful towards the other people living in Furskin. Being denied the love and care that every child should be entitled to, the young rascal learned to fend for himself the hard way. Going hungry taught him to steal. Getting caught taught him to fight. Losing fights, he learned to take a blow and come out swinging.

Part two: The boy becomes a man

Growing into puberty, Fenrir had become a fully-fledged ruffian, muscling local merchants out of food and money, threatening to kick their asses and trash their stores unless they gave him what he wanted. What was more valuable, those few coins and the couple of fruits and pieces of meat he demanded, or their entire shop and every bone in their body? Most saw reason, and relented to the young canine's demands. Others needed a bit more persuasion before giving in.

As his body matured, the teenaged thug had several flings with local girls. Some dates had happy endings, others did not go over well. While the sparse, infrequent company did little to alleviate the crushing loneliness that weighed the canine down, at least things were better now than they were when he was still a whelp. Being able to take what he wanted, instead of having to beg for it, allowed the wolf to lead a decent life for several years on end. Luxuries were few and sparse, but he had all he needed, and he could always wrestle a pint or two out of the local barkeep when feeling down.

Part three: Father

All of this changed, when one fateful day, a smuggling run went awry, and Fenrir's dad was killed by a rival gang. His mother came home, wounded and devastated. He tended to her, consoled her. She needed help, not only to dress her wounds, but to continue the smuggling business. A few more runs, and then she'd be set to retire.

He couldn't turn his own mom down. And thus, the canine succeeded his father. Roped into the smuggling business, he ran a few carriages of an exotic drug imported from the east, transporting it from Furskin to a town in the Dragon Empire down south. The guy he delivered it to insisted he had a taste of the stuff, claiming it was customary, to ensure it wasn't poisoned or otherwise tampered with along the way. One snort was all it took for Fenrir to get hooked.

A few more runs turned into an entire year of smuggling. The more product he helped himself to, the less he was paid. In between deliveries, he stopped by his mother's place, to keep her company. Although her body had healed, she wasn't interested in picking up her old ways. The death of her husband scared her away from a life of crime. That, and something else.

A girl in the village was pregnant. Fenrir was going to be a father...and she was going to be a grandmother. Upon hearing those words, a spark lit up in her son's drug-glazed eyes. The wolf underneath the mind-numbing substances began to surface. He quit being a smuggler. They had enough money to last themselves for a while, and then they'd see what happened. Slowly, but surely, he built down his drug usage, his appetite for narcotics shrinking along with his hidden stash. By the time the baby was born, he was clean. Sober. A new man. A father.

Part four: More to life

Coasting along on the money made from smuggling, the lupine, the girl he knocked up, his mother, and their child lived happily for the better half of a decade. He raised his son, teaching the little pup how to walk, talk, climb, fish, run and even fight. That last part was especially needed, since the rascal couldn't keep his hands to himself, always stealing things and getting into trouble. Just like his old man, back in the day.

Fenrir did some odd jobs here and there. He spent some time working as a lumberjack, a miner, a bartender and even a construction worker, but the paltry sums he made were nothing compared to what even a single run used to net him. There was always the urge to return to his old ways, but he vowed to stay away from the stuff that had almost ruined him. While spending time with his son was nice, this simple life was not cut out for him. He needed to do something more exciting. He had to feel alive, instead of being stuck in some small, dreary town where hardly anything ever happened.

Leaving his birthplace behind, the wolf found the one profession that'd add some thrill to his life, while still being legal. He became a wandering bounty hunter, wielding a heavy mace, passed down to him from his father, to spread justice across the land. He solely tracked down criminals and fugitives, trying to make up for his own wrongdoings. But all too soon, he realized that many of the people he hunted, were a spitting image of himself when he was younger. Boys and girls, with nothing to lose, whose only options were to steal, to rob or to kill to survive. It was all they knew. And once upon a time, it was all Fenrir knew as well. He understood what it was like, so he could not take them in.

Refusing to arrest many of his quarries, the canine's rising fame as an up-and-coming bounty hunter was all but swept away under the rug, his good name tarnished by his compassion for petty criminals. Instead of getting to chase after bandits, Fenrir was reduced to tracking down missing people. But it wasn't the same. Finding someone was a far cry away from fighting and catching outlaws. Half of the time, they'd gone missing in the woods, or they'd taken a wrong turn and ended up in another town. Hardly exciting, to track down people who aren't trying to hide. Eventually, he gave up, and began to roam the lands without reason or cause.

Once more, the lupine turned to booze, to ease his conflicted mind, and to spice up his life a little. He rarely stuck around in one place for more than a few nights, although there was one quaint little village he spent a year or two in, working for a noble lady with a lot of money to her name. Tending to triplets. They treated him like family. It felt nice, to live a life of luxury, for a while. But his wanderlust had not yet been sated. Eventually, he ventured out once more.

Part five: A forgotten friend

Laying low for a while, Fenrir's name had all but been forgotten. As far as the world was concerned, the old him, the one that screwed up job after job, had vanished. He could start anew. A second chance at becoming a proper bounty hunter. And this time, he wasn't going to let his feelings get in the way. His first mark: a human at the head of a small gang, robbing trade caravans near his home town. Wanted dead, not alive. The canine hadn't seen his own son in years. A perfect opportunity.

The wolf infiltrated the bandits' camp. He found the tent of their leader. Readying his mace, he prepared to strike the slumbering human. Suddenly, a noise. Growling. A dog. Fenrir didn't even have to turn his head. He could smell it. A familiar scent. Rex?

Erik. He'd been sent to kill his old best friend. Even the dog that he used to sleep with was still around. The beast must have been at least thirty years old by now. Impressive. He couldn't do it. They were friends. The wolf put aside his mace, gave the dog a few pats, and curled up beside it, like the good old days. Like the way things used to be. Everything was so much simpler back then. Slowly, but surely, he drifted into an uncomfortable sleep, dreaming of his childhood.

Awakening with half a dozen swords aimed at his throat, Fenrir awkwardly explained who he was. It took a bit of convincing, but ultimately Erik believed his tale. His identity made clear, the canine was greeted with open arms. Over food and drinks, the human and him shared half a lifetime worth of tales and exploits. At the end of a long, wild night, a proposition was made. If he joined the gang, he wouldn't have to start at the bottom. He could lead it, together with the human. Or, he could do what he was sent there to do, and they could have one of those mock swordfights they used to have, only this time, for real. The choice was his.

If Fenrir wanted to kill Erik, he'd have caved the bandit's skull in while he slept. Likewise, if Erik wanted Fenrir dead, the bounty hunter's throat would have been cut open before he awoke. So fighting was out of the question. If the wolf left empty-handed, he'd be right back to looking for lost kids in the woods. That wasn't an option either. He'd been down that hole, never again. So, he did the only thing he could. He took the offer. He became the co-leader of the Furskin Mountain-Crew. Not the most original of names, but it left little to the imagination.

Part six: The old guard

Over the years, the Furskin Mountain-Crew, along with their new leader, raided caravans and extorted small business all over the countryside. Fenrir felt like he was young again. For the first time in ages, he felt truly alive. Gone were the lonely days of old. His gangmembers, while technically his subordinates, grew to be his friends.

They pillaged, plundered and kidnapped their way throughout the land, ransoming the few wenches unlucky enough to fall into their clutches back for moderate sums of money. They weren't in it for the gold. They did this for fun. Sure, they needed money for food and supplies and to keep everyone moderately happy, but to Erik and Fenrir, this was just them having a good time together. This was the ideal life, for both of them. Chasing risks, getting into brawls, constantly being in danger. They were similar, in that regard. Both rebels, born to live and die as free men.

Slowly, but steadily, an unfamiliar urge grew inside of the wolf. His wanderlust was fading. Fighting and robbing was fun, but he felt like he'd seen it all. He wanted to get out. To quit the gang. To stop adventuring. To settle down, be it at Furskin, in that village where the noble woman resides, or maybe even somewhere else with someone new.

But he couldn't. Criminals can't simply stop being criminals. Unless he travelled half the world away, he would never be able to return to a normal life. Bounty hunters and lawmen would trouble him until the end of his days. And if he ran away, that'd mean he'd never see his child again. No, he'd continue being a bandit. For the time being, at least. He still had a few good years in him, and a few scores to settle with the drug-runners that got him addicted a long time ago.

The Furskin Mountain-Crew couldn't last forever. Fenrir knew it, Erik knew it, heck, everyone in the camp knew it. The wolf and the human were growing old. Soft. Too gentle and kind and forgiving for this cut-throat world. While their arms were still strong, their reflexes were waning. It was only a matter of time. One of the leaders getting killed, a local lord sending an armed contingent to deal with them, a bigger gang taking notice and forcing them to join or die, all very realistic scenarios which would lead to the crew's disbandment. Some of the men wagered on what would come first. But what happened next, was something nobody could have predicted.

Part seven: The beginning of the end

A message, from the baron of Varanar, the regent of the entire human kingdom, delivered by a group of knights massive enough to make declining his offer seem like folly. A chance at a new life. One job. All they had to do was one job, and their crimes would be forgiven. Complete amnesty, along with some hefty compensation, in return for the gang's services.

Emergency taxes were being raised, more than ever before. The populace would not stand for this. Heck, Fenrir himself was slightly disgusted when he read the numbers on the missive. The baron knew the people would not like this. They would not easily be parted from their hard-earned gold. He couldn't claim it himself. They'd fight back. Riot. Revolt. And that's where the Furskin Mountain-Crew, along with dozens of other gangs all over the kingdom came into play.

They would collect the money. Make it look like a bandit raid. Take enough valuables and gold out of town to meet the quota, put all of the loot into carriages, and deliver it to Varanar. The guards were told not to intervene. The townsfolk, while numerous, were no match for a determined group of outlaws, murderers and rapists. They took as much as they needed, and not a coin more. Fenrir didn't partake in the looting. That wasn't who he was. Not anymore, at least. Instead, he slipped off to visit his family. His son looked so much like him. The girl he fooled around with was friendly as always. She started a flower shop. And his mom, despite the passing of time having taken away much of the vibrancy of her fur, still looked as beautiful as ever.

One final trip. They headed out to meet up with the caravan master. A man of the realm, sent to oversee their operation. Bartholomew Grabgold. A real prick. He knew how to get under Fenrir's skin. Erik had to remind his partner what was at stake, more than once. If either the gold or Mister Barto did not make it back to town, they'd be hunted down and put to the sword. Even Rex, the dog, was no fan of their latest guest.

The wagons filled to the brim with gold, the group departed for Varanar. Some of the men were interested only in the monetary reward. Others, like Fenrir, wanted to use the pardon granted to quit the outlaw life. A few more spat at the idea of no longer being wanted. They couldn't imagine life without being constantly hunted. The adrenaline kept them going. The thought of not waking up in the morning drove them on, day by day.

Erik was the only one of the group which had not yet made up his mind. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, for sure, but he wasn't sure whether or not he was ready to leave his bandit ways behind him. While he'd never cared to admit it, he always saw Fenrir as more than just a friend. He was certain that the wolf would never reciprocate his feelings. Being in a gang together with his secret love was more than he could ever have dreamed of, but now, that was coming to an end. He needed more time to think. Hopefully, he'd have an answer once they got to Varanar. Maybe he could even muster up the courage to explain his feelings by then. But that much was still uncertain.

Flora

Flora Butterscotch, mother of Cassidy Butterscotch, is one of the most prominent ladies of the night in all of Varanar. Having founded her very own brothel after the untimely death of her husband, she holds sway over a large amount of middle-class prostitutes, to the point where she has become somewhat of an idol for the city's seedy underbelly. Even well beyond the confines of the human capital, tales are told of the Golden Fox whorehouse. It is praised as the absolute best bang for your buck, although in terms of raw sexual prowess it can't hope to compete with the overpriced eastern draconic geishas.

A pretty face presiding over a carnal business, Flora is a perfectly legitimate businesswoman. While she occasionally turns a blind eye to the wrongdoings of her wealthiest customers, she always remains on the good side of the law herself. Combined with frequent discounts and freebies for lawmen only, the vixen has managed to garner the good will of the city guards. Especially when a catfight between two women breaks out, patrolmen are all-too-eager to lend a helping hand.

On top of the local guards vigilantly patrolling the premises of the building, the Golden Fox employs several mercenaries to stand watch in every interior hallway, keeping the peace on the inside in a heavy-handed manner. While everything is for sale if the coin is right, clients that overstep their boundaries are swiftly and decisively dealt with. Drunkards, especially, are prone to getting kicked out if they try to push their luck. Starting a fight in the establishment is borderline suicidal.

Contrary to herself and her lusty subordinates, Flora's loyal entourage does not fuck around. Some of the men protecting the brothel are the same studs that she used to bed while her husband was still alive. Hardened, grizzled military men with the scars and the injuries to show for their macabre career. Paid a very fair share of the profits, many of them indulge in the additional perks of the job: spending quality time with the very ladies they protect, including their mistress. Nothing beats getting your dick sucked by your bitch of a boss in the middle of your heavily-paid watch duty.

Regardless of what takes your fancy, the Golden Fox has women and men of all shapes and sizes to suit your every need. From busty goblin ladies to hung stallion studs and everything in between, there isn't an itch that can't be scratched by the diverse group of prostitutes that call the brothel their home. Still, despite the many different flavours on offer, the brothel's primary attraction is its bountiful selection of vixens and androgynous male foxes, each one more willing than the last to sell their dignity to make ends meet.

The best whores are the ones that enjoy their line of work, and Flora's establishment has no lack of those. Heck, she is one of those top-tier ladies of the night herself, occasionally spreading her legs for the right customers and the right price. While her husband was still around, the vulpine was interested in nothing but getting fucked silly and bred raw. A stereotypical vixen. Nowadays, her interests have shifted more towards being on top, exerting power over her submissive clients and being paid for it.

The new Flora likes her partners young and spry, somewhat effeminate and emasculated, subservient and obedient. If they call her mommy by the end of the night, she knows she's done her job well. As such, it's no surprise that even her daughter's husband has flocked to the Golden Fox in more recent years. At first, he came to Flora in secret, thirsting for utter domination, something his overly gentle wife could never hope to provide. He swiftly became a regular customer, often spending the night in his mother-in-law's luxurious brothel bedroom, alternating between getting coddled, kissed, ridden and spanked.

So intense and intimate was the bond they shared, that Cinnamon, or so the young man was called, ultimately ran away from his wife to be with her mother. Ever since, he's been the Golden Fox's latest addition, a real fan-favorite with men and women alike, and Flora's personal pet. Cassidy? She thinks he's been kidnapped, enslaved or murdered. If only she knew the truth of what happened to her husband.

Flora

Flora Butterscotch, mother of Cassidy Butterscotch, is one of the most prominent ladies of the night in all of Varanar. Having founded her very own brothel after the untimely death of her husband, she holds sway over a large amount of middle-class prostitutes, to the point where she has become somewhat of an idol for the city's seedy underbelly. Even well beyond the confines of the human capital, tales are told of the Golden Fox whorehouse. It is praised as the absolute best bang for your buck, although in terms of raw sexual prowess it can't hope to compete with the overpriced eastern draconic geishas.

A pretty face presiding over a carnal business, Flora is a perfectly legitimate businesswoman. While she occasionally turns a blind eye to the wrongdoings of her wealthiest customers, she always remains on the good side of the law herself. Combined with frequent discounts and freebies for lawmen only, the vixen has managed to garner the good will of the city guards. Especially when a catfight between two women breaks out, patrolmen are all-too-eager to lend a helping hand.

On top of the local guards vigilantly patrolling the premises of the building, the Golden Fox employs several mercenaries to stand watch in every interior hallway, keeping the peace on the inside in a heavy-handed manner. While everything is for sale if the coin is right, clients that overstep their boundaries are swiftly and decisively dealt with. Drunkards, especially, are prone to getting kicked out if they try to push their luck. Starting a fight in the establishment is borderline suicidal.

Contrary to herself and her lusty subordinates, Flora's loyal entourage does not fuck around. Some of the men protecting the brothel are the same studs that she used to bed while her husband was still alive. Hardened, grizzled military men with the scars and the injuries to show for their macabre career. Paid a very fair share of the profits, many of them indulge in the additional perks of the job: spending quality time with the very ladies they protect, including their mistress. Nothing beats getting your dick sucked by your bitch of a boss in the middle of your heavily-paid watch duty.

Regardless of what takes your fancy, the Golden Fox has women and men of all shapes and sizes to suit your every need. From busty goblin ladies to hung stallion studs and everything in between, there isn't an itch that can't be scratched by the diverse group of prostitutes that call the brothel their home. Still, despite the many different flavours on offer, the brothel's primary attraction is its bountiful selection of vixens and androgynous male foxes, each one more willing than the last to sell their dignity to make ends meet.

The best whores are the ones that enjoy their line of work, and Flora's establishment has no lack of those. Heck, she is one of those top-tier ladies of the night herself, occasionally spreading her legs for the right customers and the right price. While her husband was still around, the vulpine was interested in nothing but getting fucked silly and bred raw. A stereotypical vixen. Nowadays, her interests have shifted more towards being on top, exerting power over her submissive clients and being paid for it.

The new Flora likes her partners young and spry, somewhat effeminate and emasculated, subservient and obedient. If they call her mommy by the end of the night, she knows she's done her job well. As such, it's no surprise that even her daughter's husband has flocked to the Golden Fox in more recent years. At first, he came to Flora in secret, thirsting for utter domination, something his overly gentle wife could never hope to provide. He swiftly became a regular customer, often spending the night in his mother-in-law's luxurious brothel bedroom, alternating between getting coddled, kissed, ridden and spanked.

So intense and intimate was the bond they shared, that Cinnamon, or so the young man was called, ultimately ran away from his wife to be with her mother. Ever since, he's been the Golden Fox's latest addition, a real fan-favorite with men and women alike, and Flora's personal pet. Cassidy? She thinks he's been kidnapped, enslaved or murdered. If only she knew the truth of what happened to her husband.

Footsie

Part one: Orcs

Orcs are a violent kind. Fighting and killing are like a second nature to them. An instinct, harking back to the days long before they formed unified tribes. Alone, one such tribe of savages is easily subdued. But, provoking even a single orc, let alone an entire tribe, will soon escalate into all-out war with all of the greenskins.

You see, despite constantly fighting one another to establish dominance, orcs valiantly band together in times of need, members of all the tribes coming together to form massive warhosts, with unrivaled destructive power. Such groups venture out from their homeland, hellbent on ending the life of whoever thought it was a good idea to mess with one of their kin. Anyone standing in between, is but another casualty of war, or at best a slave to take back home when the job is done.

In the wastelands to the north of the dragon empire, dubbed the Firelands, the harsh, arid, volcanic environment bars all but the most resilient forms of life. This is the orcs' ancestral home, where their kind was spawned from the fiery pits of molten doom. Legends tell the tale of how a mythical race of burning creatures crawled out from the molten lava, who would eventually cool down and form the first generation of orcs.

Instead of building cities, villages or hamlets, the greenskins prefer to live in large tent camps. Easy to build, easy to move, easy to maintain, and they require little to make. Warlords often decorate their impressive, hide-crafted homes, with trophies and trinkets, looted from battlefields, or carved from the corpses of slain animals and foes alike. The most prestigious of orc settlements might have a wooden stake wall, but in general, they care little for erecting defences, preferring to guard their homestead using nothing but sheer manpower, and the mettle of their crude, pig iron-forged weapons.

As Varanar is mostly inhabited by humans, dragons and kobolds, the Firelands are home primarily to orcs, goblins and the same small lizards that plague the human lands. Goblins, despite being the original inhabitants of the Firelands, are treated as second-hand citizens by their orcish masters. They serve the bigger, stronger species as underlings, slaves and squires.

But, unlike kobolds, goblins retain some of their rights, and are even regarded as equals to their bigger cousins, when it comes to dealing with outsiders. As a result, goblins enjoy a level of protection that kobolds could only ever dream of having. Slight a goblin, without being an orc yourself, and you'll have an entire horde of greenskins out for your blood. Thus, fearing the wrath of the northern tribes, most civilized nations fairly treat both orcs and goblins, to the letter of the law.

Part two: History

It is said that the original, fire-spawned orcs were black-skinned, and they turned green over the span of many generations, due to crossbreeding with the native goblins. Supporting this claim, is the fact that orc women are a rarity. Some people reckon they don't exist at all, others theorize they're so ugly, no man can gaze upon one and live to tell the tale. Without orc women around, it is the goblins that often find themselves on the receiving end of brutal, savage poundings, their masters interested in fighting first, and fucking second.

In practice, the tight-knit greenskin society consists of three layers. At the top, there are the orcs, fighting amongst themselves to prove their worth. Both halfbreeds and purebred savages fall under this category, with the purity of their lineage determining their social status. Below the orcs, are the much smaller goblins. They serve as maids, as cannon fodder, as bookkeepers, and as fucktoys. Some of them are content in this role, aspiring only to please their brutal masters. Others convene in secret, plotting the destruction of the orcs, and the reclamation of land that was once theirs.

Below the goblins, there exists one more rank of the orcish society: kobolds. The scaly vermin is barely tolerated in the ashen terrain of the Firelands, existing as slaves of slaves, the underlings of the lower caste, the omega to the orcs' alpha. Often the property of goblins, the life of a typical kobold family in greenskin territory, is not a particularly pleasant one. The lizards are seen as utterly disposable, forced to perform what few vile tasks that their servant-masters refuse to do, or simply made to serve as target practice, to test the crude sharpness of an orc's brand new weapon.

Even when trying their hardest to appease their hosts, kobolds in the Firelands are frequently hurt, maimed or outright killed, for fun, for sport, or to relieve an angry greenskin's frustration through raw violence. The lizard population in the Firelands thrives not through survival, but due to the sheer fertility of kobold women, and the omni-compatibility of their genes.

As orcs violate, copulate and breed with goblins, so too do the smaller greenskins sate their lust on their own slaves in turn. Orcs fuck goblins, and impregnate their women. Goblins fuck kobolds, and inseminate the female lizards. Kobolds can consider themselves lucky if they get to fuck anything at all, although in every society, there are always deviants who prefer to take, instead of give.

On rare occasions, when no goblins are within arm's reach, orcs have been known to hump kobolds to death. A gruesome end, although perhaps not the worst way to go. While orcs lack the patience for cruel torture, goblins are an expert at it. The most sadistic and cruel of their kind, can keep kobolds teetering on the edge of death for days on end. Innovation requires sacrifice, and the scaly vermin make for excellent test subjects.

Part three: Kobolds in hell

Luckily, not every kobold living in the Firelands is instantly murdered, raped or maimed the second they leave their tent. Those who know their place, have a markedly higher survival rate, than those who do not. The ones that actively try to please their masters, are perhaps the most likely to live a lengthy life. But still, staying alive in an orc camp is a matter of pure, dumb luck. If one of the savages wishes you dead, then your days are numbered, and there isn't much of anything you can do about it. That is the reality, not only for kobolds, but for any non-greenskin visiting orc lands.

Most kobolds in greenskin territory live under the immediate rule of goblins, but a few lizard families retain a certain semblance of freedom. They are still liable to being commanded, used and abused by orcs and goblins alike, but they aren't direct slaves to any of greenskins. This group of unusually lucky kobolds, gets to live a relatively normal life, subsisting on scraps and whatever they manage to steal without being caught.

One such unbound family of lizards, is the Grimclaws. That name was bestowed upon them, when a distant ancestor bravely sacrificed himself, taking the brunt of the blow of a charging boar, to save a wounded goblin. Upon seeing this act of honor, the leader of the local tribe freed the dying kobold's family from servitude, a prestigious boon for the lowly lizards, which were typically below the orcs' notice.

For a few generations, the Grimclaws enjoyed preferential treatment, being seen by their fellow tribemembers as honorary goblins, instead of kobolds. They earned the right to freely walk around, to eat alongside the orcs, and to sleep in a proper tent, instead of being forced to live on the streets. However, in more recent years, the memory of what distinguished the Grimclaws from the other kobolds living at the orc encampment, has all but faded away. The lizards have fallen from grace, and have rejoined the rest of their kin, at the bottom of the totem pole.

Part four: Fun and games

The current patriarch of the Grimclaw family, is an enigmatic doofus. Going by the name of Sealouse, he hasn't accomplished much in his life. His every endeavour seems to end in failure, and misfortune follows him, no matter what he tries his hand at. It is almost as though he is cursed, or perhaps he is simply experiencing the flipside of the bloodline's former good fortune. Whatever the case, he has managed to upset a great deal of the goblins that live in the camp the Grimclaws have called home for centuries.

How, you might ask? About a decade ago, the oaf was strolling around the tents, looking for things to steal, or scraps of food to bring home to his kobold wife. Instead of a feast, he stumbled upon the smartest of the local greenskins, in the midst of a simplistic game of cards. Sticking around as a spectator, Sealouse accidentally overstayed his welcome, revealing a goblin's hand by thinking out loud.

Due to the lousy lizard's untimely comment, a bluff was called, and the game was decided. Nobody playing appreciated it ending so soon. In fact, the kobold had completely ruined their one peaceful passtime. Due to the rather high wagers at stake, even the crowd showed great restraint in not outright murdering the Grimclaw patriarch on the spot. No, a far worse fate awaited Sealouse.

The ownership of a kobold family had been bet. The goblin who lost his slaves, remained suspiciously calm. He rose to his feet, and walked over to the kobold that had cost him his servants. The crowd went silent, all eyes on Sealouse, expecting him to get stabbed or beaten or choked to death for his transgression. Instead, the goblin and the tiny lizard exchanged a few whispers. After a small, hushed back and forth, both of them promptly left the area together, leaving their spectators confused, denied the bloodbath they were hoping for.

The goblin was exceedingly convincing in his quiet phrasing. Even in the heat of the moment, he spoke concisely and decisively enough for Sealouse to understand what was being asked of him. Either he'd show the card-player where he lives, or he'd get killed, right then and there. The scaly vermin knew that nothing good would come from inviting the savage into his tent, but he was faced with little options, surrounded by a crowd of greenskins out for his blood. He was exchanging certain doom, for a delayed execution. A good trade, or so his panicking mind reasoned.

Part five: Familial beatings

And so, Sealouse guided the sore loser to his household. The kobold's wife wasn't expecting any company. As soon as the primitive tent flaps fell shut, things turned from bad, to worse. In the privacy of the tent, the goblin's rage resurfaced. He brutally beat the scaly vermin to within an inch of his life, the lizard's spouse too scared to intervene.

Then, without so much as an explanation, the goblin's pants came off. Now that Sealouse had been shown his place, his wife was next. She was violently raped, forced to do the most humiliating and degrading of acts, with every fertile load of goblin spunk squirted directly inside of her, all while she begged and pleaded for her life.

The man of the house, was, of course, forced to watch his one and only love being defiled in his very own tent. And there was little he could do about it, lying in a pool of his own blood, his eyes so bruised he could barely even see. Whatever disgusting acts she refused to do, no matter how much she was beaten, the greenskin forced upon him instead. That night, Sealouse lost not only his relationship, but also what little of his pride and masculinity remained. It was only come dawn, that the goblin decided he had indulged in enough kobold ass. Completely sated, the greenskin returned to his own home.

The lizards, both bloodied and bruised, embraced each other, crying into one another's arms, hoping it was finally over. For almost the entire day, they wept and they slept, thoroughly traumatized. Right as Sealouse had recovered the strength to rise to his feet, however, their worst nightmare became a reality. At first, the kobold thought he was dreaming. That his tortured mind was making things up. But no, he was wide awake. It was real.

The very same goblin that had forced himself upon the couple, was at their doorstep once more. Again, like he did the day before, the greenskin unbuckled his belt, lowered his trousers, and continued the kobolds' descent into hell. Sealouse had cost the violent rapist his slaves, and so they would serve as his new stress relievers. Day after day, night after night. This was their new life.

Part six: Crossbreed

With the constant fucking, it didn't take long for the kobold's wife to end up pregnant. There was no doubt in anyone's mind. The baby was the goblin's. As the scaly woman's belly grew, her husband took the brunt of the goblin's abuse. A few months later, a healthy baby boy was born. It was exceedingly obvious who the father was, just by looking at the little lizard. The half-goblin was a testament, to Sealouse's failure.

Kayun is what the boy was named. It meant bastard, in orcish. Despite there being a whelpling in the tent, the scorned goblin showed no signs of stopping his daily abuse. Even while the little one was being breastfed, his mother was forced to spread her legs. Growing up under these conditions, watching his parents get molested, day, after day, after day, left a mark on the young boy's mind. One that would affect him for the rest of his life.

While Sealouse was more concerned about himself, than about his bastard child, the woman of the tent was exceedingly worried that the goblin would turn to molesting her child, should her or her husband fail to please. The cruel savage had threatened to harm her baby several times before, and she dreaded the day he'd follow through on his warnings. No, the boy could not grow up here. He had to be brought to somewhere safe. Safer than the orc camp, at least. But where? And how?

An opportunity presented itself, in the form of a draconic trade caravan, stopping in the camp for a few days. Trading was not an activity orcs were happy to dabble in, but to their great frustration, some things brought in by the few caravans travelling north, simply could not be found within the Firelands themselves. Hard wood from forests, steel that the orcs themselves were too primitive to forge, cows and chickens and grain to supplement the savages' meat-centric diet, and exotic spirits, with a punch heavier than anything the greenskins could manage to brew.

Kayun's mother offered the dragons a desperate deal. They'd take her son with them, bring the boy to a better place. But they wanted something in return. She had nothing to give, except for one commodity. Her body.

The caravaneers had been travelling through orc lands for months on end, without the comfort of womanly company. Despite her being but a lowly kobold, they mutually decided to accept her deal. For the better half of a week, Kayun's mother was passed around between entire groups of dragons during the day, only to come home and be violated by the family's goblin assailant at night.

Part seven: Departure

Only after every single last one of the dragons had had their way with the kobold cumdump, was it time for the group to start the final leg of their journey back home. As promised, they took the growing whelpling with them, as they departed from the orc camp. Kayun was confused, and scared, but his mother assured him that everything would be alright. He wouldn't have to be afraid of his goblin uncle anymore. It was time, for the boy to become a man.

The dragons were surprisingly kind towards the youngling in their midst. Despite Kayun being a kobold, he reminded a lot of the men of their own families back home. Kobolds and dragons look a lot alike when young, which certainly did help the boy's case. During the several months of travel, the dragons taught him how to write and how to read, the fantasy novels on knights and adventuring that served as a passtime, now functioning as educational material and as bedtime stories.

To earn his keep, the kobold was given some menial tasks to perform. He was in charge of feeding the chickens, making sure the straps and belts that kept wares in place were firmly secured, and he was even taught how to milk the cows! For his services, he was paid in food and a few meagre coins, with which to kickstart his life, at the end of their journey.

Travelling along the border of the dragon empire, the caravan headed back towards Varanar, where their adventure began. They crossed mountains, rounded lakes, paid off a few local officials to let them pass without inspection, and ventured along trails infrequently visited by more than local sheep herders. Eventually, they crossed into the slightly more hospitable human lands, and from there, it was not long until they reached their destination.

Arriving at Varanar, Kayun had matured enough, to know it was time to say goodbye. He'd wept profusely at the sight of his mother waving him off, but there were no tears this time around. In the many months they'd travelled together, he had made friends with some of the caravaneers. And these veteran travellers had taught him, that parting ways wasn't always a bad thing. It was with mutual respect, that the kobold and the traders separated. The boy's new life in Varanar, was about to begin.

Part eight: The real world

But the people inhabiting the capital of humans, were a far cry away from the heroics he'd read about in books. In Varanar, a naive little kobold with a few coins to his name, does not last long. And indeed, despite arriving late in the afternoon, Kayun lost most of the gold he had earned, even before the sun had fully set. A thief stole a few, a card game scam cost him a couple, and he had to pay a toll for walking through the wrong street, to spare his kneecaps from the ruffians surrounding him.

Come nightfall, the young kobold was sorely disillusioned, and on the verge of being completely broke. Lacking the money to pay for an inn room, he decided to try something his travelling companions had told him about: beer at a tavern. Having never had an alcoholic beverage before, the first round hit him like a runaway horse. And so, Kayun's first evening in Varanar, ended up being a blur.

At some point, in between chugging down drinks and periodically blacking out, a friendly kobold approached. The red-scaled lizard was far more trained in holding down booze, and the two drank together for a bit. Before long, Kayun found himself getting touched by the friendly stranger. Then, they were kissing. He didn't even know the other guy, but the inebriated newcomer gladly accepted an invitation to the room where he was staying.

The rest of the night was wild. Kayun lost his virginity, as passion turned to lust. The domineering kobold pounded him in every position imaginable. He was bent over the bed, forced up against the wall, fucked in missionary position, he had his first taste of cock, and even long after he had blown his own load, he was still on the receiving end of the energetic stranger's neverending humping.

Come morningtime, Kayun awoke in a bed he had no recollection of ever seeing before, lying next to a kobold he could only barely remember. His head hurt, his rear stung, his jaw ached, and a weird flavour lingered in his mouth. Was every night in Varanar going to be like this? That thought was closer to the truth than the boy could ever had imagined. As his bed-partner awoke, the first words that were exchanged, would shape the rest of Kayun's life. "Good morning, Footsie."

Part nine: New land, new name

Bewildered, the kobold asked who Footsie was. The other lizard explained that, after Kayun had begged to lick his feet, he found it an appropriate nickname. A blush formed on the newcomer's face. It was undeniable that he had a thing for paws and soles alike, but had the booze really lowered his inhibition to the point where he openly exposed his most intimate desires?

The answer was yes. But Tak-Tik, or so his impromptu lover introduced himself, did not indulge the curious boy. He wasn't much for experimenting, especially not with a one-night stand. The sly scoundrel claimed, that the past night had been incredible, with some of the best sex he'd ever had. He was fully intent on dumping Footsie, but now he wasn't so sure anymore.

Kayun got out of bed, tidied himself up a little, and prepared to leave. Right as the naive kobold reached for the door, the red-scaled lizard halted him. Whether he was simply out for more fucking, or maybe he needed another accomplice, perhaps he was looking for something more, or it could have been a mixture of all of these reasons, but Tak-Tik offered his quick lay a job.

Footsie did need a way to provide for himself. The kobold that took advantage of him, was pretty much the only person he knew in town. And, what little fragments he could remember, their time together had been a pleasant one. Kayun was broke, emotionally vulnerable, still reeling from last night, and desperate for someone to make him feel less lonely in the big city of Varanar. So, he did the only thing that made sense to him, at the time. He stayed, and listened to the scoundrel's offer.

Part ten: The gang

Tak-Tik explained that he was the leader of a kobold-only group calling themselves the Eight Paw Gang. The four of them roamed the forest outside of the city, looking for easy pickings and quick jobs. Lost travellers, lone merchants, anyone they could extort for a pretty penny. Not exactly legal, but out in the woods, the law holds no sway. And here in town, there's far too many kobolds around for anyone to single them out from the crowd.

Their thievery wasn't enough to make them rich men, but they earned far more coins than many of their kind would ever see in their entire life! It was sufficient to rent not one, but two inn rooms nigh-permanently, to eat all they could stomach, drink as much as they wanted to, and even go weeks on end without needing to worry about money at all. Compared to ordinary kobolds, they lived a life of luxury, even if it meant getting on the bad side of the law every now and again.

Sure, it was risky, but living in Varanar was inherently dangerous for any and all scaly vermin. Banding together at least gave them a fighting chance, both literally and figuratively. Worst case scenario, if the guards caught wind of their actions, they could lay low for a while, spend a few weeks fishing or hunting in the woods until the heat cooled down. But that was unlikely to happen, since the humans had bigger fish to dry, both inside, and outside of the city walls.

An offer was put on the table. Tak-Tik wanted Footsie to join the crew. To turn it into the Ten Paw Gang. He'd get his fair share of the loot, access to both of the inn rooms, he'd get to make friends with the rest of the thugs, and the two of them could get to spend a lot more time together. And if he didn't want to join, then he could walk out of the door, and the two would never see each other again.

Part eleven: Violence and fondness

The sexual innuendo of spending time together was not lost on Kayun, and perhaps it was the thought of being together with this charismatic kobold, that ultimately swayed him to the cause. After a moment of silence and internal reflection, the newcomer saw reason in the seasoned veteran's words. And so, Kayun became Footsie, the newest member of the Ten Paw Gang.

The kobold was introduced to the rest of the gang, and together, all five of them went into the forest. Victims aplenty, although there were some hidden dangers which Tak-Tik had failed to mention. Other gangs of bandits, mercenaries protecting travellers, and dangerous wildlife had them running back home with their tails between their legs more than once. Still, something the leader of the gang had not lied about, was the money. Despite being rare to come by, robbing even a single merchant could tide the entire group over for months to come.

Highwaymen by day, every evening the group returned home to Varanar, each of them relaxing in their own way, until morning. For Footsie and Tak-Tik, this often meant spending the night together, keeping half the inn awake with their loud moans and groans. The red-scaled kobold was an aggressive lover, good at one thing and one thing only: fucking. He'd always bend Kayun over, and show the meek lizard how he earned the nickname of stud in the village he grew up in.

They weren't officially a couple, but it was clear that Tak-Tik had feelings for the newest member of the group. He'd always go to extra lengths to make sure that Footsie was safe, and he'd even blatantly worry about the timid bandit, whenever they had to split up and flee. The rookie didn't know the lay of the land as well as his team did, but somehow he always managed to find his way back to Varanar, even after running all over the woods. The moment the newbie returned, so too did Tak-Tik's cool demeanour make a comeback.

Part twelve: The home front

Whenever he wasn't with Tak-Tik, Footsie spent his free time writing letters to send back home. Knowing fully well that there was no postal service in orc territory, and that his family didn't even really have an address, he still penned note after note after note about life in Varanar, hoping the mailmen could somehow deliver even one of them. It was a fool's errand, but it kept his mind occupied, and it reminded him of how much his mother sacrificed, to bring him to where he was right now.

Years went by without a reply. But then, suddenly, a few weeks after Footsie had given up hope of ever hearing from his family again, a letter arrived for him! Penned by his mother, was a simplistic, barely legible description of how life at the greenskin camp was much better now, that the dragons had invaded the Firelands. They'd built proper houses, and schools, where she learned how to read and how to write! A new mailing system, put in place by the draconic bureaucracy, had carried his latest letters to her doorstep. The goblin that frequently abused his family was, unfortunately, killed in the fighting. And, on top of all of these surprises, Kayun had a baby brother!

The unsettling news of war in the east was disturbing, to say the least, but knowing his family was doing fine, brought great joy to Footsie's heart. He immediately set to writing a response, and despite the several months of delay between him sending a letter, and his mother receiving it, Kayun developed a slow, but steady line of communication between him and his parents. It was exceedingly obvious that both sides were all but lying to embellish their respective situations, but still, it was nice to know that he'd always have a home, in a land far away.

Part thirteen: Things fall apart

While getting pounded every night was more than a little pleasurable, Footsie found himself wanting for something more in the bedroom. He didn't necessarily want to be the dominant one, but Tak-Tik's traditional approach to late night fun, left little room for romance or experimentation. Kissing during sex, was the closest thing to affection that he would show. Buttfucking and blowjobs was all they ever did. The stud had no interest in the simpler things, such as jerking off together, nor did he want to humor Kayun's thing for feet.

More than once, did the submissive kobold sneak out of bed in the middle of the night, to stealthily indulge in his lover's worn footwear. Tak-Tik looked down on Kayun for his deviant behavior, and more than once did he wake up to the foot-lover's frantic masturbation. One time, Footsie even had the audacity to start huffing his feet while he slept! Minor annoyances soon grew to heated debates, and angry arguments. Slowly, but steadily, Footsie and Tak-Tik began to drift apart.

In an attempt to temper the meek kobold's growing attitude, the desperate Tak-Tik concocted a devious plan, every bit as stupid as it was brilliant. Buying a large batch of feminizing FemPlus potions, he began to spike Footsie's meals and drinks, with small, sparse doses of the stuff. Not nearly enough to turn him into a girl outright, but sufficient amounts of the alchemical drug to severely hamper his male hormone production.

Over time, the potion did serve to somewhat enhance Footsie's inherent meekness, and bring out his more emotional and girly side, but to Tak-Tik's great frustration, it did not improve the relationship between the two kobolds. If anything, Kayun's new mood swings only served to worsen their friendship. They broke up, or so the rest of the gang jokes. Their ridiculing hurts Tak-Tik more than he cares to admit, and not even his rampant alcoholism, can fill the hole in his heart that Footsie left.

Footsie

Part one: Orcs

Orcs are a violent kind. Fighting and killing are like a second nature to them. An instinct, harking back to the days long before they formed unified tribes. Alone, one such tribe of savages is easily subdued. But, provoking even a single orc, let alone an entire tribe, will soon escalate into all-out war with all of the greenskins.

You see, despite constantly fighting one another to establish dominance, orcs valiantly band together in times of need, members of all the tribes coming together to form massive warhosts, with unrivaled destructive power. Such groups venture out from their homeland, hellbent on ending the life of whoever thought it was a good idea to mess with one of their kin. Anyone standing in between, is but another casualty of war, or at best a slave to take back home when the job is done.

In the wastelands to the north of the dragon empire, dubbed the Firelands, the harsh, arid, volcanic environment bars all but the most resilient forms of life. This is the orcs' ancestral home, where their kind was spawned from the fiery pits of molten doom. Legends tell the tale of how a mythical race of burning creatures crawled out from the molten lava, who would eventually cool down and form the first generation of orcs.

Instead of building cities, villages or hamlets, the greenskins prefer to live in large tent camps. Easy to build, easy to move, easy to maintain, and they require little to make. Warlords often decorate their impressive, hide-crafted homes, with trophies and trinkets, looted from battlefields, or carved from the corpses of slain animals and foes alike. The most prestigious of orc settlements might have a wooden stake wall, but in general, they care little for erecting defences, preferring to guard their homestead using nothing but sheer manpower, and the mettle of their crude, pig iron-forged weapons.

As Varanar is mostly inhabited by humans, dragons and kobolds, the Firelands are home primarily to orcs, goblins and the same small lizards that plague the human lands. Goblins, despite being the original inhabitants of the Firelands, are treated as second-hand citizens by their orcish masters. They serve the bigger, stronger species as underlings, slaves and squires.

But, unlike kobolds, goblins retain some of their rights, and are even regarded as equals to their bigger cousins, when it comes to dealing with outsiders. As a result, goblins enjoy a level of protection that kobolds could only ever dream of having. Slight a goblin, without being an orc yourself, and you'll have an entire horde of greenskins out for your blood. Thus, fearing the wrath of the northern tribes, most civilized nations fairly treat both orcs and goblins, to the letter of the law.

Part two: History

It is said that the original, fire-spawned orcs were black-skinned, and they turned green over the span of many generations, due to crossbreeding with the native goblins. Supporting this claim, is the fact that orc women are a rarity. Some people reckon they don't exist at all, others theorize they're so ugly, no man can gaze upon one and live to tell the tale. Without orc women around, it is the goblins that often find themselves on the receiving end of their masters' lustiness.

In practice, the tight-knit greenskin society consists of three layers. At the top, there are the orcs, fighting amongst themselves to prove their worth. Both halfbreeds and purebred savages fall under this category, with the purity of their lineage determining their social status. Below the orcs, are the much smaller goblins. They serve as maids, as cannon fodder, and as bookkeepers. Some of them are content in this role, aspiring only to please their brutal masters. Others convene in secret, plotting the destruction of the orcs, and the reclamation of land that was once theirs.

Below the goblins, there exists one more rank of the orcish society: kobolds. The scaly vermin is barely tolerated in the ashen terrain of the Firelands, existing as slaves of slaves, the underlings of the lower caste, the omega to the orcs' alpha. Often the property of goblins, the life of a typical kobold family in greenskin territory, is not a particularly pleasant one. The lizards are seen as utterly disposable, forced to perform what few vile tasks that their servant-masters refuse to do, or simply made to serve as target practice, to test the crude sharpness of an orc's brand new weapon.

Even when trying their hardest to appease their hosts, kobolds in the Firelands are frequently hurt, maimed or outright killed, for fun, for sport, or to relieve an angry greenskin's frustration through raw violence. The lizard population in the Firelands thrives not through survival, but due to the sheer fertility of kobold women, and the omni-compatibility of their genes.

Part three: Kobolds in hell

Luckily, not every kobold living in the Firelands is instantly murdered or maimed the second they leave their tent. Those who know their place, have a markedly higher survival rate, than those who do not. The ones that actively try to please their masters, are perhaps the most likely to live a lengthy life. But still, staying alive in an orc camp is a matter of pure, dumb luck. If one of the savages wishes you dead, then your days are numbered, and there isn't much of anything you can do about it. That is the reality, not only for kobolds, but for any non-greenskin visiting orc lands.

Most kobolds in greenskin territory live under the immediate rule of goblins, but a few lizard families retain a certain semblance of freedom. They are still liable to being commanded, used and abused by orcs and goblins alike, but they aren't direct slaves to any of greenskins. This group of unusually lucky kobolds, gets to live a relatively normal life, subsisting on scraps and whatever they manage to steal without being caught.

One such unbound family of lizards, is the Grimclaws. That name was bestowed upon them, when a distant ancestor bravely sacrificed himself, taking the brunt of the blow of a charging boar, to save a wounded goblin. Upon seeing this act of honor, the leader of the local tribe freed the dying kobold's family from servitude, a prestigious boon for the lowly lizards, which were typically below the orcs' notice.

For a few generations, the Grimclaws enjoyed preferential treatment, being seen by their fellow tribemembers as honorary goblins, instead of kobolds. They earned the right to freely walk around, to eat alongside the orcs, and to sleep in a proper tent, instead of being forced to live on the streets. However, in more recent years, the memory of what distinguished the Grimclaws from the other kobolds living at the orc encampment, has all but faded away. The lizards have fallen from grace, and have rejoined the rest of their kin, at the bottom of the totem pole.

Part four: Fun and games

The current patriarch of the Grimclaw family, is an enigmatic doofus. Going by the name of Sealouse, he hasn't accomplished much in his life. His every endeavour seems to end in failure, and misfortune follows him, no matter what he tries his hand at. It is almost as though he is cursed, or perhaps he is simply experiencing the flipside of the bloodline's former good fortune. Whatever the case, he has managed to upset a great deal of the goblins that live in the camp the Grimclaws have called home for centuries.

How, you might ask? About a decade ago, the oaf was strolling around the tents, looking for things to steal, or scraps of food to bring home to his kobold wife. Instead of a feast, he stumbled upon the smartest of the local greenskins, in the midst of a simplistic game of cards. Sticking around as a spectator, Sealouse accidentally overstayed his welcome, revealing a goblin's hand by thinking out loud.

Due to the lousy lizard's untimely comment, a bluff was called, and the game was decided. Nobody playing appreciated it ending so soon. In fact, the kobold had completely ruined their one peaceful passtime. Due to the rather high wagers at stake, even the crowd showed great restraint in not outright murdering the Grimclaw patriarch on the spot. No, a far worse fate awaited Sealouse.

The ownership of a kobold family had been bet. The goblin who lost his slaves, remained suspiciously calm. He rose to his feet, and walked over to the kobold that had cost him his servants. The crowd went silent, all eyes on Sealouse, expecting him to get stabbed or beaten or choked to death for his transgression. Instead, the goblin and the tiny lizard exchanged a few whispers. After a small, hushed back and forth, both of them promptly left the area together, leaving their spectators confused, denied the bloodbath they were hoping for.

The goblin was exceedingly convincing in his quiet phrasing. Even in the heat of the moment, he spoke concisely and decisively enough for Sealouse to understand what was being asked of him. Either he'd show the card-player where he lives, or he'd get killed, right then and there. The scaly vermin knew that nothing good would come from inviting the savage into his tent, but he was faced with little options, surrounded by a crowd of greenskins out for his blood. He was exchanging certain doom, for a delayed execution. A good trade, or so his panicking mind reasoned.

Part five: Familial beatings

And so, Sealouse guided the sore loser to his household. The kobold's wife wasn't expecting any company. As soon as the primitive tent flaps fell shut, things turned from bad, to worse. In the privacy of the tent, the goblin's rage resurfaced. He brutally beat the scaly vermin to within an inch of his life, the lizard's spouse too scared to intervene. When the man of the house was too injured to move, the goblin had his way with the kobold's wife. It wasn't until dawn, that the greenskin returned to his own home.

The lizards, both bloodied and bruised, embraced each other, crying into one another's arms, hoping it was finally over. For almost the entire day, they wept and they slept, thoroughly traumatized. Right as Sealouse had recovered the strength to rise to his feet, however, their worst nightmare became a reality. At first, the kobold thought he was dreaming. That his tortured mind was making things up. But no, he was wide awake. It was real.

The very same goblin, was at their doorstep once more. Again, the hell repeated itself. Sealouse had cost the violent man his slaves, and so they would serve as his new stress relievers. Day after day, night after night. This was their new life.

Part six: Crossbreed

It didn't take long for the kobold's wife to end up pregnant. There was no doubt in anyone's mind. The baby was the goblin's. As the scaly woman's belly grew, her husband took the brunt of the goblin's abuse. A few months later, a healthy baby boy was born. It was exceedingly obvious who the father was, just by looking at the little lizard. The half-goblin was a testament, to Sealouse's failure.

Kayun is what the boy was named. It meant bastard, in orcish. Despite there being a whelpling in the tent, the scorned goblin showed no signs of stopping his daily abuse. Growing up under these conditions, watching his parents get beaten, day, after day, after day, left a mark on the young boy's mind. One that would affect him for the rest of his life.

While Sealouse was more concerned about himself, than about his bastard child, the woman of the tent was exceedingly worried that the goblin would turn to hurting her child, should her or her husband fail to please. The cruel savage had threatened to harm her baby several times before, and she dreaded the day he'd follow through on his warnings. No, the boy could not grow up here. He had to be brought to somewhere safe. Safer than the orc camp, at least. But where? And how?

An opportunity presented itself, in the form of a draconic trade caravan, stopping in the camp for a few days. Trading was not an activity orcs were happy to dabble in, but to their great frustration, some things brought in by the few caravans travelling north, simply could not be found within the Firelands themselves. Hard wood from forests, steel that the orcs themselves were too primitive to forge, cows and chickens and grain to supplement the savages' meat-centric diet, and exotic spirits, with a punch heavier than anything the greenskins could manage to brew.

Kayun's mother offered the dragons a desperate deal. She wanted them to take her son with them, bring the boy to a better place. At first, they were hesitant. But the kobold woman's incessant pleading, along with a few horror stories about how terrible life at the camp was, eventually managed to persuade them to take her son with.

Part seven: Departure

After several days of downtime, it was time for the group to start the final leg of their journey back home. As promised, they took the growing whelpling with them, as they departed from the orc camp. Kayun was confused, and scared, but his mother assured him that everything would be alright. He wouldn't have to be afraid of his goblin uncle anymore. It was time, for the boy to become a man.

The dragons were surprisingly kind towards the youngling in their midst. Despite Kayun being a kobold, he reminded a lot of the men of their own families back home. Kobolds and dragons look a lot alike when young, which certainly did help the boy's case. During the several months of travel, the dragons taught him how to write and how to read, the fantasy novels on knights and adventuring that served as a passtime, now functioning as educational material and as bedtime stories.

To earn his keep, the kobold was given some menial tasks to perform. He was in charge of feeding the chickens, making sure the straps and belts that kept wares in place were firmly secured, and he was even taught how to milk the cows! For his services, he was paid in food and a few meagre coins, with which to kickstart his life, at the end of their journey.

Travelling along the border of the dragon empire, the caravan headed back towards Varanar, where their adventure began. They crossed mountains, rounded lakes, paid off a few local officials to let them pass without inspection, and ventured along trails infrequently visited by more than local sheep herders. Eventually, they crossed into the slightly more hospitable human lands, and from there, it was not long until they reached their destination.

Arriving at Varanar, Kayun had matured enough, to know it was time to say goodbye. He'd wept profusely at the sight of his mother waving him off, but there were no tears this time around. In the many months they'd travelled together, he had made friends with some of the caravaneers. And these veteran travellers had taught him, that parting ways wasn't always a bad thing. It was with mutual respect, that the kobold and the traders separated. The boy's new life in Varanar, was about to begin.

Part eight: The real world

But the people inhabiting the capital of humans, were a far cry away from the heroics he'd read about in books. In Varanar, a naive little kobold with a few coins to his name, does not last long. And indeed, despite arriving late in the afternoon, Kayun lost most of the gold he had earned, even before the sun had fully set. A thief stole a few, a card game scam cost him a couple, and he had to pay a toll for walking through the wrong street, to spare his kneecaps from the ruffians surrounding him.

Come nightfall, the young kobold was sorely disillusioned, and on the verge of being completely broke. Lacking the money to pay for an inn room, he decided to try something his travelling companions had told him about: beer at a tavern. Having never had an alcoholic beverage before, the first round hit him like a runaway horse. And so, Kayun's first evening in Varanar, ended up being a blur.

Come morningtime, Kayun awoke in a bed he had no recollection of ever seeing before, lying next to a kobold he could only barely remember. His head hurt, his rear stung, his jaw ached, and a weird flavour lingered in his mouth. Was every night in Varanar going to be like this? That thought was closer to the truth than the boy could ever had imagined. As his bed-partner awoke, the first words that were exchanged, would shape the rest of Kayun's life. "Good morning, Footsie."

Part nine: New land, new name

Bewildered, the kobold asked who Footsie was. The other lizard explained that, after downing a few ales, Kayun's tongue had loosened considerably, and some of his deepest desires were revealed last night. An appropriate nickname, was it not? A blush formed on the newcomer's face. It was undeniable that he had a thing for paws and soles alike, but had the booze really lowered his inhibition to the point where he openly exposed his most intimate wants?

The answer was yes. But Tak-Tik, or so his impromptu lover introduced himself, did not indulge the curious boy. He wasn't much for experimenting, especially not with a one-night stand. The sly scoundrel claimed, that the past night had been incredible. He was fully intent on dumping Footsie, but now he wasn't so sure anymore.

Kayun got out of bed, tidied himself up a little, and prepared to leave. Right as the naive kobold reached for the door, the red-scaled lizard halted him. Whether he simply needed another accomplice, if he was looking for something more, Tak-Tik offered his quick lay a job.

Footsie did need a way to provide for himself. The kobold that took advantage of him, was pretty much the only person he knew in town. And, what little fragments he could remember, their time together had been a pleasant one. Kayun was broke, emotionally vulnerable, still reeling from last night, and desperate for someone to make him feel less lonely in the big city of Varanar. So, he did the only thing that made sense to him, at the time. He stayed, and listened to the scoundrel's offer.

Part ten: The gang

Tak-Tik explained that he was the leader of a kobold-only group calling themselves the Eight Paw Gang. The four of them roamed the forest outside of the city, looking for easy pickings and quick jobs. Lost travellers, lone merchants, anyone they could extort for a pretty penny. Not exactly legal, but out in the woods, the law holds no sway. And here in town, there's far too many kobolds around for anyone to single them out from the crowd.

Their thievery wasn't enough to make them rich men, but they earned far more coins than many of their kind would ever see in their entire life! It was sufficient to rent not one, but two inn rooms nigh-permanently, to eat all they could stomach, drink as much as they wanted to, and even go weeks on end without needing to worry about money at all. Compared to ordinary kobolds, they lived a life of luxury, even if it meant getting on the bad side of the law every now and again.

Sure, it was risky, but living in Varanar was inherently dangerous for any and all scaly vermin. Banding together at least gave them a fighting chance, both literally and figuratively. Worst case scenario, if the guards caught wind of their actions, they could lay low for a while, spend a few weeks fishing or hunting in the woods until the heat cooled down. But that was unlikely to happen, since the humans had bigger fish to dry, both inside, and outside of the city walls.

An offer was put on the table. Tak-Tik wanted Footsie to join the crew. To turn it into the Ten Paw Gang. He'd get his fair share of the loot, access to both of the inn rooms, he'd get to make friends with the rest of the thugs, and the two of them could get to spend a lot more time together. And if he didn't want to join, then he could walk out of the door, and the two would never see each other again.

Part eleven: Violence and fondness

It was the thought of being together with this charismatic kobold, that ultimately swayed the newcomer to the cause. After a moment of silence and internal reflection, he saw reason in the seasoned veteran's words. And so, Kayun became Footsie, the newest member of the Ten Paw Gang.

The kobold was introduced to the rest of the gang, and together, all five of them went into the forest. Victims aplenty, although there were some hidden dangers which Tak-Tik had failed to mention. Other gangs of bandits, mercenaries protecting travellers, and dangerous wildlife had them running back home with their tails between their legs more than once. Still, something the leader of the gang had not lied about, was the money. Despite being rare to come by, robbing even a single merchant could tide the entire group over for months to come.

Highwaymen by day, every evening the group returned home to Varanar, each of them relaxing in their own way, until morning. For Footsie and Tak-Tik, this often meant spending the night together. They weren't officially a couple, but it was clear that the leader had feelings for the newest member of the group. He'd always go to extra lengths to make sure that Footsie was safe, and he'd even blatantly worry about the timid bandit, whenever they had to split up and flee. The rookie didn't know the lay of the land as well as his team did, but somehow he always managed to find his way back to Varanar, even after running all over the woods. The moment the newbie returned, so too did Tak-Tik's cool demeanour make a comeback.

Part twelve: The home front

Whenever he wasn't with Tak-Tik, Footsie spent his free time writing letters to send back home. Knowing fully well that there was no postal service in orc territory, and that his family didn't even really have an address, he still penned note after note after note about life in Varanar, hoping the mailmen could somehow deliver even one of them. It was a fool's errand, but it kept his mind occupied, and it reminded him of how much his mother sacrificed, to bring him to where he was right now.

Years went by without a reply. But then, suddenly, a few weeks after Footsie had given up hope of ever hearing from his family again, a letter arrived for him! Penned by his mother, was a simplistic, barely legible description of how life at the greenskin camp was much better now, that the dragons had invaded the Firelands. They'd built proper houses, and schools, where she learned how to read and how to write! A new mailing system, put in place by the draconic bureaucracy, had carried his latest letters to her doorstep. The goblin that frequently abused his family was, unfortunately, killed in the fighting. And, on top of all of these surprises, Kayun had a baby brother!

The unsettling news of war in the east was disturbing, to say the least, but knowing his family was doing fine, brought great joy to Footsie's heart. He immediately set to writing a response, and despite the several months of delay between him sending a letter, and his mother receiving it, Kayun developed a slow, but steady line of communication between him and his parents. It was exceedingly obvious that both sides were all but lying to embellish their respective situations, but still, it was nice to know that he'd always have a home, in a land far away.

Part thirteen: Things fall apart

While getting pounded every night was more than a little pleasurable, Footsie found himself wanting for something more in the bedroom. He didn't necessarily want to be the dominant one, but Tak-Tik's traditional approach to late night fun, left little room for romance or experimentation. A few kisses, were the closest thing to affection that he would show. The stud was selfish. He had no interest in humoring Kayun's kinks. And because of that, the first cracks in their relationship began to form.

Minor annoyances quickly grew to heated debates, and angry arguments. Slowly, but steadily, Footsie and Tak-Tik began to drift apart. In an attempt to temper the meek kobold's growing attitude, the desperate ringleader concocted a devious plan, every bit as stupid as it was brilliant. Buying a large batch of feminizing FemPlus potions, he began to spike Footsie's meals and drinks, with small, sparse doses of the stuff. Not nearly enough to turn him into a girl outright, but sufficient amounts of the alchemical drug to severely hamper his male hormone production.

Over time, the potion did serve to somewhat enhance Footsie's inherent meekness, and bring out his more emotional and girly side, but to Tak-Tik's great frustration, it did not improve the relationship between the two kobolds. If anything, Kayun's new mood swings only served to worsen their friendship. They broke up, or so the rest of the gang jokes. Their ridiculing hurts Tak-Tik more than he cares to admit, and not even his rampant alcoholism, can fill the hole in his heart that Footsie left.

Green

Part one: The undesirables

For those incapable of forging their own destiny, Varanar is a cruel place to be. In the human capital, very few things are handed out for free. The weak, the feebleminded, the crippled and the elderly are often left to fend for themselves, or even preyed upon by immoral thugs, be it for personal gain or for sheer amusement. Life, for the infirm, is not a guarantee. People who can not provide for themselves, are highly unlikely to last for long. And even if they somehow manage to scrape out a miserable existence, it is rarely a good life.

Realizing how appalling conditions were for less fortunate citizens, a few kind souls took it upon themselves to help those who are in need. Clerics, sinners looking to repent, locals with disabled friends, and a couple of guards looking to make the city a better place, joined forces and bundled coins. They were granted a large building in the dead-center of Varanar, donated by a generous old man. With some hard work and honest labour, they turned the decrepit old mansion into a serviceable shelter, and began taking care of folks from all walks of life, who were unable to look after themselves.

The new sanctuary was not a place for everyone down on their luck. The homeless and the indebted, if still fit to work, were declined refuge. The founders knew that they couldn't possibly offer housing for half the city, so they wisely restricted themselves to only those who are completely and utterly helpless, be it due to excessive age, defunct genetics, or horrible accidents. These unwanted misfits and elderly loners were taken in by the city's one and only hospice. In return for what meagre possessions they had prior to their admission, they were bathed daily, clothed if unable to dress themselves, looked after during the day, and tucked in at night.

The effects of the newly opened nursing home were immediately visible on the streets of Varanar. No longer were there old people, legless cripples and blind folks begging on the sides of the roads. They were all neatly tucked away and taken care for, making the city a much nicer place for tourists and travellers both. The diminished amount of remaining beggars were treated with even more disrespect, now that they were mostly able-bodied and able-minded.

The founders put their all into upholding the shelter. They spent their every waking hour nursing their various patients, doubly so as the amount of caretakers steadily dwindled, a lot of the founders of the place having underestimated the amount of work it would take to keep it up and running. Long, hard, thankless, unpaid work. Not exactly what they imagined it would be like. The less mentally able and the stubborn old geezers, especially, were often more than a little ungrateful for being taken care of.

Part two: The king

To fund all of the food and the clothes and the fresh water and the soap and the firewood needed to keep everyone fed, healthy and presentable, the sanctuary relied mostly on donations. The combined wealth of the founders alone was not nearly enough to sustain the shelter, lest they all got second jobs, solely to funnel money into it. Not an option, with how hard they were already working.

While generous at first, the people of Varanar soon stopped caring about the nursing home. The public sale of the properties of their patients, prior to admission, brought in some gold, but not nearly enough. The proprietors of the shelter needed more funding, lest they were to shut it down and kick all of the disabled people back out onto the streets, with even less than they had before they were admitted.

It was a moment of crisis for the people running the place. They were officially out of gold. No more money, no more supplies. It seemed the dream had come to an end. But then, right at the onset of the subsequent nightmare, an overly generous benefactor reared his handsome head.

The philanthropic king of all humankind, had heard of the newfound kindness that had popped up in the capital of his land. After a bombastic entrance to the street the shelter was on, he proclaimed to the gathering crowd that he would personally fund the sanctuary, for as long as he lived. His announcement was met with great applause, from the very same people that refused to donate even a single coin to the wellbeing of their city. Such was life in Varanar.

With royal backing, the nursing home flourished. The grand dining table was always well-filled, the storehouse was fully stocked, and the fireplace burned non-stop. Life was good, for both the caretakers, and their guests. Everyone was free to come and go as they pleased, save for some violent edge cases. Alas, this inevitably lead to a few unfortunate incidents where some of the less-sane patients ended up stealing, getting involved with local gangs, or otherwise causing trouble. Luckily, due to it having the king's very own blessing, the guards tended to side with the sanctuary, and the caretakers were quick to return any stolen goods.

Part three: The thieves' guild

But all good things must come to an end. In more recent years, the ruler of mankind has left his domain, heading north to join a grand crusade. In his absence, the flow of regal handouts eventually came to a halt, disappearing into the pockets of corrupt officials. Since the nursing home was funded by the king, donations had long since stopped coming. Without additional funding, the sanctuary was slated to die a slow, and painful death.

In the face of adversity, many of the remaining caretakers simply gave up. They returned to their daily lives, leaving behind a venture they put years into, solely because they saw no way out of the impending financial doom. Only the men and women who had nothing to go back to, who gave the sanctuary their everything, remained to treat the infirm. A small group of devout caretakers, who were willing to see things through to the very end.

Conditions at the shelter rapidly degraded. There was no money to buy new clothes, and even if there was, they simply lacked the manpower to dress and undress each and every one of their patients, day after day. With supervision waning, the more criminally inclined of the mentally ill plied their nefarious trades in the outside world, coming home only to stash their stolen goods.

Most of them didn't mean any harm. They stole out of compulsion, or out of habit. Many had been forced to steal by their families, prior to being admitted. It was their way of making ends meet. And one of the remaining caretakers, a founder of the place, came to the realization that perhaps there wasn't anything inherently wrong with stealing from the rich, in order to give to the poor.

No longer were stolen goods returned to their owners. Instead, they were pawned off to shady grey market contacts, profits flowing right back into the nursing home. If the guards came knocking, then any involvement in the matter was denied. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep things running. For now. And that is how the shelter earned its nickname: the thieves' guild.

Part four: The accident

But we're getting ahead of ourselves. This story is about Green. Green is a dog-kobold crossbreed, who, due to a mixture of bad genetics and an unfortunate accident when he was small, has severe mental issues. He is unable to properly speak, nor can his infantile mind reason beyond basic necessities. As a result, many people have taken advantage of the poor kobold, in more than one way.

Born to a kobold mother and a canine father, Green is the result of several generations of crossbreeding and inbreeding. His dog dad may or may not also have been his grandfather. The records are somewhat muddled, not even the large, degenerate, incestuous family themselves able to keep track of who impregnated who. In a house of mixed dogs, kobolds and crossbreeds, there was never not someone in rut, heat or otherwise aroused. He was named Biscuit, in the hopes that he would one day provide them with food.

Kobolds age at an incredible rate. At only three years old, they are considered adults of their kind. Green didn't even make that far. Approximately one year after he was born, his clumsy mother accidentally let her latest child slip from her grasp, right as she was standing at the top of a flight of stairs. The whelpling, wrapped in a warm blanket, tumbled down and down, all the way to the ground, in sickening silence, letting out not even a single cry, as his mom watched on in abject horror, her heart shattering a little more with every step her baby hit.

Kobolds are resilient creatures. They can survive and recover from incredible amounts of punishment, although not always without permanent damage. Biscuit survived the horrible fall, but on top of a lot of his growing bones being shattered, something inside of the young crossbreed broke. He was never going to be a genius. But now, any hopes of him growing up to be at least somewhat normal, had been thrown out of the window.

The crossbreed's mother knew she'd made a terrible mistake. It was an honest accident, but people wouldn't see it as such. They'd think she threw her son down the stairs, on purpose. At best, she'd be scolded and reprimanded, turned into a pariah in her own household. At worst, her canine elders would kill her for endangering their bloodline, regardless of Biscuit's countless brothers and sisters.

She had to hide what happened. Luckily, nobody was around the house at the time of the accident. No one had seen what had happened, apart from a few other whelplings, too young to tell the tale. But what would she do with her little boy, to prevent the dogs from discovering his injuries? There was no doctor that could fix what she had done, and even if there was, they hadn't the money to spare. She'd be found out, one way or the other. And then, not only his life would be ruined, but hers as well.

So, in desperate need, Biscuit's mother did something drastically selfish. She tucked her injured child away into a straw basket, strolled out into the center of the city, found the biggest and wealthiest home she could find, waited until the streets were clear, and then she did the only thing she could. She left him. She left her son, on the porch of an unknown stranger, she knocked the door, and she ran back home.

There were plenty of kids to worry about, enough to hide the fact that Biscuit was gone. He would not be missed, and she would not be punished. In the rich household where she left him, he'd get the medical care he needed. It was the best solution for both of them. Everything was going to be alright. Only one of these thoughts coursing through the distressed mother's mind, would prove to be accurate.

Part five: The bear

A knock on the door roused a cranky, old bear from his well-deserved slumber. He'd worked his entire life, plowing and managing farms, building up a vast fortune using nothing but his two burly hands, so he could ultimately settle down and retire in the human capital.

It was odd, for anyone to come visit him. He had no friends and no family, and his childless lover passed away more than a decade ago. After he sold off his last farm to a young couple of foxes, he bought a home in the city, and moved there overnight. Nobody knew where exactly he had gone, and the locals had no idea who this mysterious man was.

All he wanted, was peace and quiet. To hibernate by the fireplace, until he, too, finally slipped into the great sleep. Surely, he'd earned that much? But no, fate had decided otherwise.

It was pure curiosity that drove the ursine to rise from his comfortable couch. He meandered over to the door, and opened it up to a crack, to see who it was that wanted a piece of what little time he had left. Nobody. A prank, or maybe he was just imagining things again. Either way, more strain than he had hoped his weary legs would have to endure that day.

Right as the bear turned to walk away, a single sound stopped him dead in his tracks. An infantile cry. Swinging open the door, he found the basket that had been left on his porch, and in it a young whelpling, barely bigger than the palm of his hand. Injured. And no parents around.

For a moment, the retired farmer faced a dilemma. Leave the child, and go back to living the rest of his life in solitude, or use the remainder his impressive hoard to help the miserable crossbreed. That first option seemed really alluring at first, but then a strange feeling awoke within the large ursine. He'd always wanted a child, someone to continue his legacy. Yet, despite countless attempts, it was never meant to happen. And now, there was a baby boy, delivered right to his doorstep. Was it a sign?

Maybe. Or perhaps, he simply did not want to spend the remainder of his days alone. He'd had his fill of loneliness, and while the grim reaper beckoned, it was not yet his time. There was still one good deed left in the big, old bear.

He took Biscuit in. Spent a lot of money to hire the best doctors in town, to mend the child's wounds. The boy wasn't in any immediate danger, but without their intervention, he would never have walked again. There were some things that the medicine could not fix, but they darn sure did try. After all was said and done, the recovering halfbreed was left in the ursine's care. Without a name tag, the youngling had to be called something. Green seemed more than apt.

Gone were the days of sleeping twenty hours straight. The whelp had to be bathed, fed and taken care of. While his body continued to age, the bear felt like he was young again. For the first time in years, he felt alive. As Green's legs recovered, broken bones mending, the two of them went on ever-lengthening walks through the town. Therapeutic for both of them.

Part six: Growing pains

The bear spared no expenses in keeping his adopted son entertained. Some fancy new treat called iced cream, was the canine-kobold's favorite. Expensive, but worth every single coin, to see a smile on the little one's face. Eventually, almost half a year after he'd been taken in, Green uttered his first word ever, far later than the average kobold would have. "Dada". For the first time since his wife died, the ursine shed a tear.

It was exceedingly obvious that the young one wasn't very right in the head. On more than a dozen occasions, the bear had to tell the boy that touching the logs in the fireplace, while it was lit, was a bad idea. Yet still, like a moth to a flame, the naively inquisitive child was drawn to the flickering light. Burned hands had to be treated on the regular, but luckily there was always a bucket of water around, which now served both to extinguish the flames, and to ease the burns when another oopsie happened.

But, despite the moments of frustration, the bear loved the whelp, as though it was his own son. As months flew by, their walks together grew shorter once more, not even his brand new walking cane able to support the aging man's weight for long. He wasn't long for this world. His end was drawing near. And without him, Green would be all alone once more.

He couldn't let that happen. When word was spread around town, that a group of caring individuals was looking to buy a place, to establish a nursing home for people like Green, the bear knew what had to be done. He offered them his house, and what little remained of his all-but-spent pension, on two conditions. First and foremost, for as long as they were able to, they had to take care of Green. That was the most important of his terms. Secondly, more of a request than a demand. They had to wait, until the old man himself had kicked the bucket.

Daily, someone would come to visit, to check if the time had come. Less than a week after the bargain was struck, it happened. The bear took an afternoon nap on the couch, his favorite place to sit. Warm and comfortable, in front of the fireplace. His heavy, labored breathing slowly came to a halt. He was with his wife once more.

And that is where Green was found, sleeping on the cold, hard floor in front of his dead caretaker, the fireplace long since extinguished.

Part seven: Moving on

It was hard to explain what had happened. The boy had no concept of life or death. To him, it looked like his father was asleep. In his limited vocabulary, the child begged the bear to wake up. But it was of no use. Distracting him with some toys, was the only way they could smuggle the ursine's lifeless corpse outside, without the orphan noticing. It was now up to them, the founders of Varanar's first nursing home, to take care of Green.

But it wasn't an easy task. Not a day went by without Green asking about his dad. The small kobold could barely speak, but his desire to see the one person that ever cared for him again, was undeniably clear. A lot of things changed, in rapid succession, especially as the shelter opened to the public. He didn't handle the change very well. He barely ate, grew uninterested in toys, even refused to go on his daily walks. Ultimately, he stopped asking to see his father again. It was as though his slow mind had finally processed what had happened. Like he realized that the bear had died. And so he took the first step, on the long road to recovery.

It wasn't until long after he'd fully matured, that a faint smile returned to Green's dim-witted face. Over time, it grew into the same dumb, broad laugh that had been plastered across his visage, back when he was with his ursine dad. He went on daily walks once more, going alone if none of the caretakers were available to accompany him. And while not very capable himself, he tried his best to help out around the shelter, with varying results.

That is where he lived a relatively peaceful life, until a few months ago. During one of his walks, the dog-bold accidentally strayed into the wrong part of town. Child-like innocence and naivety made him enter a massage parlor, solely because he saw another kobold working inside, and he wanted to make friends. Little did he know that that small lizard was not there out of free will. He, too, ended up being captured and forced to work by the cruel and vicious owner of the place.

But unlike his peers, Green doesn't really mind his new master. The strong, male figure reminds him of the father he once had, especially ever since Tychus figured out that positive reinforcement is the best way to encourage Green. After getting over the initial shock, the crossbreed has been happy to serve. And giving massages, is a task even the most dull of the tools in the shed can do. It makes him feel useful, wanted, and at times, he even feels like he has finally found his one, true, home.

Green

Part one: The undesirables

For those incapable of forging their own destiny, Varanar is a cruel place to be. In the human capital, very few things are handed out for free. The weak, the feebleminded, the crippled and the elderly are often left to fend for themselves, or even preyed upon by immoral thugs, be it for personal gain or for sheer amusement. Life, for the infirm, is not a guarantee. People who can not provide for themselves, are highly unlikely to last for long. And even if they somehow manage to scrape out a miserable existence, it is rarely a good life.

Realizing how appalling conditions were for less fortunate citizens, a few kind souls took it upon themselves to help those who are in need. Clerics, sinners looking to repent, locals with disabled friends, and a couple of guards looking to make the city a better place, joined forces and bundled coins. They were granted a large building in the dead-center of Varanar, donated by a generous old man. With some hard work and honest labour, they turned the decrepit old mansion into a serviceable shelter, and began taking care of folks from all walks of life, who were unable to look after themselves.

The new sanctuary was not a place for everyone down on their luck. The homeless and the indebted, if still fit to work, were declined refuge. The founders knew that they couldn't possibly offer housing for half the city, so they wisely restricted themselves to only those who are completely and utterly helpless, be it due to excessive age, defunct genetics, or horrible accidents. These unwanted misfits and elderly loners were taken in by the city's one and only hospice. In return for what meagre possessions they had prior to their admission, they were bathed daily, clothed if unable to dress themselves, looked after during the day, and tucked in at night.

The effects of the newly opened nursing home were immediately visible on the streets of Varanar. No longer were there old people, legless cripples and blind folks begging on the sides of the roads. They were all neatly tucked away and taken care for, making the city a much nicer place for tourists and travellers both. The diminished amount of remaining beggars were treated with even more disrespect, now that they were mostly able-bodied and able-minded.

The founders put their all into upholding the shelter. They spent their every waking hour nursing their various patients, doubly so as the amount of caretakers steadily dwindled, a lot of the founders of the place having underestimated the amount of work it would take to keep it up and running. Long, hard, thankless, unpaid work. Not exactly what they imagined it would be like. The less mentally able and the stubborn old geezers, especially, were often more than a little ungrateful for being taken care of.

Part two: The king

To fund all of the food and the clothes and the fresh water and the soap and the firewood needed to keep everyone fed, healthy and presentable, the sanctuary relied mostly on donations. The combined wealth of the founders alone was not nearly enough to sustain the shelter, lest they all got second jobs, solely to funnel money into it. Not an option, with how hard they were already working.

While generous at first, the people of Varanar soon stopped caring about the nursing home. The public sale of the properties of their patients, prior to admission, brought in some gold, but not nearly enough. The proprietors of the shelter needed more funding, lest they were to shut it down and kick all of the disabled people back out onto the streets, with even less than they had before they were admitted.

It was a moment of crisis for the people running the place. They were officially out of gold. No more money, no more supplies. It seemed the dream had come to an end. But then, right at the onset of the subsequent nightmare, an overly generous benefactor reared his handsome head.

The philanthropic king of all humankind, had heard of the newfound kindness that had popped up in the capital of his land. After a bombastic entrance to the street the shelter was on, he proclaimed to the gathering crowd that he would personally fund the sanctuary, for as long as he lived. His announcement was met with great applause, from the very same people that refused to donate even a single coin to the wellbeing of their city. Such was life in Varanar.

With royal backing, the nursing home flourished. The grand dining table was always well-filled, the storehouse was fully stocked, and the fireplace burned non-stop. Life was good, for both the caretakers, and their guests. Everyone was free to come and go as they pleased, save for some violent edge cases. Alas, this inevitably lead to a few unfortunate incidents where some of the less-sane patients ended up stealing, getting involved with local gangs, or otherwise causing trouble. Luckily, due to it having the king's very own blessing, the guards tended to side with the sanctuary, and the caretakers were quick to return any stolen goods.

Part three: The thieves' guild

But all good things must come to an end. In more recent years, the ruler of mankind has left his domain, heading north to join a grand crusade. In his absence, the flow of regal handouts eventually came to a halt, disappearing into the pockets of corrupt officials. Since the nursing home was funded by the king, donations had long since stopped coming. Without additional funding, the sanctuary was slated to die a slow, and painful death.

In the face of adversity, many of the remaining caretakers simply gave up. They returned to their daily lives, leaving behind a venture they put years into, solely because they saw no way out of the impending financial doom. Only the men and women who had nothing to go back to, who gave the sanctuary their everything, remained to treat the infirm. A small group of devout caretakers, who were willing to see things through to the very end.

Conditions at the shelter rapidly degraded. There was no money to buy new clothes, and even if there was, they simply lacked the manpower to dress and undress each and every one of their patients, day after day. With supervision waning, the more criminally inclined of the mentally ill plied their nefarious trades in the outside world, coming home only to stash their stolen goods.

Most of them didn't mean any harm. They stole out of compulsion, or out of habit. Many had been forced to steal by their families, prior to being admitted. It was their way of making ends meet. And one of the remaining caretakers, a founder of the place, came to the realization that perhaps there wasn't anything inherently wrong with stealing from the rich, in order to give to the poor.

No longer were stolen goods returned to their owners. Instead, they were pawned off to shady grey market contacts, profits flowing right back into the nursing home. If the guards came knocking, then any involvement in the matter was denied. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep things running. For now. And that is how the shelter earned its nickname: the thieves' guild.

Part four: The accident

But we're getting ahead of ourselves. This story is about Green. Green is a dog-kobold crossbreed, who, due to a mixture of bad genetics and an unfortunate accident when he was small, has severe mental issues. He is unable to properly speak, nor can his infantile mind reason beyond basic necessities. As a result, many people have taken advantage of the poor kobold, in more than one way.

Born to a kobold mother and a canine father, Green is the result of several generations of crossbreeding and inbreeding. His dog dad may or may not also have been his grandfather. The records are somewhat muddled, not even the large, degenerate, incestuous family themselves able to keep track of who impregnated who. He was named Biscuit, in the hopes that he would one day provide them with food.

Kobolds age at an incredible rate. At only three years old, they are considered adults of their kind. Green didn't even make that far. Approximately one year after he was born, his clumsy mother accidentally let her latest child slip from her grasp, right as she was standing at the top of a flight of stairs. The whelpling, wrapped in a warm blanket, tumbled down and down, all the way to the ground, in sickening silence, letting out not even a single cry, as his mom watched on in abject horror, her heart shattering a little more with every step her baby hit.

Kobolds are resilient creatures. They can survive and recover from incredible amounts of punishment, although not always without permanent damage. Biscuit survived the horrible fall, but on top of a lot of his growing bones being shattered, something inside of the young crossbreed broke. He was never going to be a genius. But now, any hopes of him growing up to be at least somewhat normal, had been thrown out of the window.

The crossbreed's mother knew she'd made a terrible mistake. It was an honest accident, but people wouldn't see it as such. They'd think she threw her son down the stairs, on purpose. At best, she'd be scolded and reprimanded, turned into a pariah in her own household. At worst, her canine elders would kill her for endangering their bloodline, regardless of Biscuit's countless brothers and sisters.

She had to hide what happened. Luckily, nobody was around the house at the time of the accident. No one had seen what had happened, apart from a few other whelplings, too young to tell the tale. But what would she do with her little boy, to prevent the dogs from discovering his injuries? There was no doctor that could fix what she had done, and even if there was, they hadn't the money to spare. She'd be found out, one way or the other. And then, not only his life would be ruined, but hers as well.

So, in desperate need, Biscuit's mother did something drastically selfish. She tucked her injured child away into a straw basket, strolled out into the center of the city, found the biggest and wealthiest home she could find, waited until the streets were clear, and then she did the only thing she could. She left him. She left her son, on the porch of an unknown stranger, she knocked the door, and she ran back home.

There were plenty of kids to worry about, enough to hide the fact that Biscuit was gone. He would not be missed, and she would not be punished. In the rich household where she left him, he'd get the medical care he needed. It was the best solution for both of them. Everything was going to be alright. Only one of these thoughts coursing through the distressed mother's mind, would prove to be accurate.

Part five: The bear

A knock on the door roused a cranky, old bear from his well-deserved slumber. He'd worked his entire life, plowing and managing farms, building up a vast fortune using nothing but his two burly hands, so he could ultimately settle down and retire in the human capital.

It was odd, for anyone to come visit him. He had no friends and no family, and his childless lover passed away more than a decade ago. After he sold off his last farm to a young couple of foxes, he bought a home in the city, and moved there overnight. Nobody knew where exactly he had gone, and the locals had no idea who this mysterious man was.

All he wanted, was peace and quiet. To hibernate by the fireplace, until he, too, finally slipped into the great sleep. Surely, he'd earned that much? But no, fate had decided otherwise.

It was pure curiosity that drove the ursine to rise from his comfortable couch. He meandered over to the door, and opened it up to a crack, to see who it was that wanted a piece of what little time he had left. Nobody. A prank, or maybe he was just imagining things again. Either way, more strain than he had hoped his weary legs would have to endure that day.

Right as the bear turned to walk away, a single sound stopped him dead in his tracks. An infantile cry. Swinging open the door, he found the basket that had been left on his porch, and in it a young whelpling, barely bigger than the palm of his hand. Injured. And no parents around.

For a moment, the retired farmer faced a dilemma. Leave the child, and go back to living the rest of his life in solitude, or use the remainder his impressive hoard to help the miserable crossbreed. That first option seemed really alluring at first, but then a strange feeling awoke within the large ursine. He'd always wanted a child, someone to continue his legacy. Yet, despite countless attempts, it was never meant to happen. And now, there was a baby boy, delivered right to his doorstep. Was it a sign?

Maybe. Or perhaps, he simply did not want to spend the remainder of his days alone. He'd had his fill of loneliness, and while the grim reaper beckoned, it was not yet his time. There was still one good deed left in the big, old bear.

He took Biscuit in. Spent a lot of money to hire the best doctors in town, to mend the child's wounds. The boy wasn't in any immediate danger, but without their intervention, he would never have walked again. There were some things that the medicine could not fix, but they darn sure did try. After all was said and done, the recovering halfbreed was left in the ursine's care. Without a name tag, the youngling had to be called something. Green seemed more than apt.

Gone were the days of sleeping twenty hours straight. The whelp had to be bathed, fed and taken care of. While his body continued to age, the bear felt like he was young again. For the first time in years, he felt alive. As Green's legs recovered, broken bones mending, the two of them went on ever-lengthening walks through the town. Therapeutic for both of them.

Part six: Growing pains

The bear spared no expenses in keeping his adopted son entertained. Some fancy new treat called iced cream, was the canine-kobold's favorite. Expensive, but worth every single coin, to see a smile on the little one's face. Eventually, almost half a year after he'd been taken in, Green uttered his first word ever, far later than the average kobold would have. "Dada". For the first time since his wife died, the ursine shed a tear.

It was exceedingly obvious that the young one wasn't very right in the head. On more than a dozen occasions, the bear had to tell the boy that touching the logs in the fireplace, while it was lit, was a bad idea. Yet still, like a moth to a flame, the naively inquisitive child was drawn to the flickering light. Burned hands had to be treated on the regular, but luckily there was always a bucket of water around, which now served both to extinguish the flames, and to ease the burns when another oopsie happened.

But, despite the moments of frustration, the bear loved the whelp, as though it was his own son. As months flew by, their walks together grew shorter once more, not even his brand new walking cane able to support the aging man's weight for long. He wasn't long for this world. His end was drawing near. And without him, Green would be all alone once more.

He couldn't let that happen. When word was spread around town, that a group of caring individuals was looking to buy a place, to establish a nursing home for people like Green, the bear knew what had to be done. He offered them his house, and what little remained of his all-but-spent pension, on two conditions. First and foremost, for as long as they were able to, they had to take care of Green. That was the most important of his terms. Secondly, more of a request than a demand. They had to wait, until the old man himself had kicked the bucket.

Daily, someone would come to visit, to check if the time had come. Less than a week after the bargain was struck, it happened. The bear took an afternoon nap on the couch, his favorite place to sit. Warm and comfortable, in front of the fireplace. His heavy, labored breathing slowly came to a halt. He was with his wife once more.

And that is where Green was found, sleeping on the cold, hard floor in front of his dead caretaker, the fireplace long since extinguished.

Part seven: Moving on

It was hard to explain what had happened. The boy had no concept of life or death. To him, it looked like his father was asleep. In his limited vocabulary, the child begged the bear to wake up. But it was of no use. Distracting him with some toys, was the only way they could smuggle the ursine's lifeless corpse outside, without the orphan noticing. It was now up to them, the founders of Varanar's first nursing home, to take care of Green.

But it wasn't an easy task. Not a day went by without Green asking about his dad. The small kobold could barely speak, but his desire to see the one person that ever cared for him again, was undeniably clear. A lot of things changed, in rapid succession, especially as the shelter opened to the public. He didn't handle the change very well. He barely ate, grew uninterested in toys, even refused to go on his daily walks. Ultimately, he stopped asking to see his father again. It was as though his slow mind had finally processed what had happened. Like he realized that the bear had died. And so he took the first step, on the long road to recovery.

It wasn't until long after he'd fully matured, that a faint smile returned to Green's dim-witted face. Over time, it grew into the same dumb, broad laugh that had been plastered across his visage, back when he was with his ursine dad. He went on daily walks once more, going alone if none of the caretakers were available to accompany him. And while not very capable himself, he tried his best to help out around the shelter, with varying results.

That is where he lived a relatively peaceful life, until a few months ago. During one of his walks, the dog-bold accidentally strayed into the wrong part of town. Child-like innocence and naivety made him enter a massage parlor, solely because he saw another kobold working inside, and he wanted to make friends. Little did he know that that small lizard was not there out of free will. He, too, ended up being captured and forced to work by the cruel and vicious owner of the place.

But unlike his peers, Green doesn't really mind his new master. The strong, male figure reminds him of the father he once had, especially ever since Tychus figured out that positive reinforcement is the best way to encourage Green. After getting over the initial shock, the crossbreed has been happy to serve. And giving massages, is a task even the most dull of the tools in the shed can do. It makes him feel useful, wanted, and at times, he even feels like he has finally found his one, true, home.

Javert

Part one: Prisoners

Below the mighty keep that sits at the very center of the city of Varanar, a sprawling maze of dungeons, with cells of all sizes and shapes, is host to a wide array of convicts, slowly withering away in the dark, damp hell they call their home. Minor offences are usually settled through bodily punishments or monetary fees; meaning the prison is reserved for only the worst of the criminal scum. Rapists, murderers, traitors, and many others who haven't earned the mercy of a swift death.

Few who enter the dungeons in cuffs, ever end up leaving. Sentence times are often forgotten about, making almost every prisoner a lifetime inmate. And since they know they won't be getting out, most inmates have completely lost hope, falling prey to insanity, which usually leads to their untimely demise.

Besides starvation, suicide is the leading cause of death in the dungeons. Only the lucky, get to have their corpse taken out and buried. The others remain imprisoned, even long after they have passed away. Until their bones slowly turn to dust, will they be held captive. And even then, it'll take a rare gust of wind to scatter their remains across the bleak cell they once lived in.

In the outside world, the law ensures peace, and relatively fair treatment of all those with rights. In the Varanarian dungeon, none of that matters. The guards rule absolute. They decide who lives, and who dies, often demanding ridiculous, humiliating or degrading acts in return for food, water or other necessities.

The dungeon, is where the most wicked of patrolmen go to sate their deviant urges. None of the inmates, when they first arrive, agree to suck dick in return for food. But a few days of starvation is all it takes to break most of them. And once they have cracked, they can be made to do anything their cruel masters desire. The few prisoners that stubbornly refuse to indulge their jailers, never last very long. And the ones that dare to bite, lose their teeth as well as their dignity.

Not all of the guards are completely unreasonable. For the right price, prisoners can lead decent lives within their confinement. Some would call it corruption, but in the dungeons this phenomenon is known as the prison economy. Thugs who have information to give, money stashes to reveal the location of, or accomplices on the outside that can do some dirty work for the crooked guards, are given preferential treatment over the rest of the scum.

The ones that have the most to give, are provided with lavish feasts, decorated interiors, any women or drugs they so desire, and the freedom to choose their cellmates. Fresh meat is often walked through a hallway filled with these honored guests, so that any interested parties can immediately ask to take the rookie in. Sometimes, this even escalates into small bidding wars, especially when it is a woman being brought in.

Outside of those prostitutes unlucky enough to be summoned to sate the urges of powerful crime lords behind bars, few females ever get put into the dungeons, often receiving penalties in the public stockades instead. One such woman, pregnant nonetheless, was brought in half a century ago. On the king's orders, she was put in a cell all by herself, far away from everyone else. There, she gave birth to a baby boy, which she named Javert. With no father around, the child inherited his mother's last name. Toutemort.

At the time, the young king of humans had seen fit, to hand the barony of Varanar over to a dragon, to maintain the good relationship between the human kingdom, and the draconic empire to the east. As such, many of the wardens roaming the dungeons, were dragons, instead of humans. A group of these out-of-place guards, took a particular interest in the lone woman breastfeeding her baby boy. Word quickly spread. With rising notoriety, came those with ill intent.

And so it was, that the growing Javert bore witness to his mother being abused and raped, by many of the patrolling squads of well-armed dragons. Like clockwork, they returned multiple times per day, forcing the woman to perform various vile acts for their amusement. If she refused, they'd threaten Javert. She didn't want anything bad to happen to her child. Even at the cost of what was left of her pride.

Years of daily abuse went by. As the woman's resistance faded, the dragons grew ever-more violent, trying to get a rise out of her, to fuel their sadistic urges. One day, things went overboard. A choke-happy guard squeezed her supple neck a little too hard. A loud snap signalled the end of the woman's life, as Javert watched on in horror.

The remorseless guards, only keeping the boy around to threaten his mother with, decided that it'd be best to let him die out on the streets, than having to stand his incessant wailing over the dead whore. The kid was grabbed, escorted out of the dungeon, promptly kicked out of the keep, and into the streets, the bright daylight making it hard to see. Mere minutes after the death of his mother, he was all alone in the middle of a city he'd lived in for his entire life, yet he had never laid his half-blinded eyes upon it.

Part two: Street rats

Javert aimlessly wandered the streets, weeping profusely over the loss of the one person he held dear. His entire world had been torn away from him, replaced by the alien sensation of freedom. Come nightfall, the exhausted boy collapsed in an alleyway. While prison was anything but warm, nothing could have prepared him for a cold winter night spent outside. He would have frozen to death, were it not for the ragged pieces of his mother's torn clothing, draped around his shivering frame.

Come morningtime, the first rays of sunlight offered slight solace from the icy frigidness. Hunger setting in, the young boy began to beg for scraps of food. But, in a time of little excess, there was naught to spare for a street urchin like Javert. The poor lacked the means to assist, the middle class had no time to help, and the rich were cold and heartless as ever. Javert ended up eating even less than he did in the dungeon. Which is to say: nothing.

Days passed. While the child had found some new ways to keep warm at night -- mostly burning old, discarded wooden boxes -- his malnourishment was reaching critical levels. So weak he could barely even walk anymore, delirious from lack of sustenance, Javert stumbled into the one part of town he had deliberately avoided until then. The kobold district. The one place, where he could perhaps find someone less fortunate than he was.

Kobolds wasting away in the squalor of the slummiest part of town was business as usual, but a starving human wandering the decrepit back-alleys, was a rare sight, for sure. By the simple virtue of being a kobold, many of the lizards who called this place home couldn't dream of living a better life than they already were. But to see a human brought so low, as to hobble into hell looking for handouts, gave them a smug sense of satisfaction. For once in their short and insignificant lives, the lowest of the low had found someone even worse off than they.

The myriad of gangs wandering the slums saw no point to mugging or antagonizing the boy. He had nothing worth of value, and there was no fun to be had in bullying someone too weak to fight back. To Javert's great surprise, the lizards showed more compassion than his own people had. While they had nothing to give, at least they tolerated his presence, moreso than the merchants and the guards in the rest of the city.

At the end of yet another day of suffering and hunger, the owner of one of the few local businesses, a tavern, invited the child inside. While wary of dealing with strangers, especially those of another species, Javert had nothing left to lose. He accepted the invitation, and was greeted with open arms, and a bowl of warm sludge, remotely resembling soup. Not having eaten in almost a week, the boy voraciously devoured the broth, especially savoring the thick chunks of mystery meat contained within.

The kobold that ran the place was a smart one. It saw the long-term benefits, in befriending a human. The street-rat was offered a deal, the same deal that, decades later, would be presented to a certain red-scaled fighter. In return for some minor work, he could stay at the tavern overnight, and he'd be fed one bowl of slop per day. Far more than he'd be able to get on his own.

There wasn't much of a choice to be made, between starving and freezing to death, or sweeping the floor and doing some chores. And so, the young Javert became the only human employee in the entire kobold district. He spent his days serving drinks, helping his boss cook food, cleaning the place, and munching down his daily serving of soup.

Over time, the boy grew into a young man. The bigger he got, the more his duties shifted away from tidying, towards becoming the bouncer of the kobold tavern. Having someone twice the size of the average patron around, worked wonders to uphold the peace. Even when drunk off their asses, most of the patrons realized that a fist fight with a human could only end poorly for them. The few that did cause trouble, were quickly and decisively dealt with.

This is how Javert got his first taste of dispensing justice. Fisticuffs with drunken kobolds, as the rest of the tavern cheered on. While tempers ran high, it was all in good spirits, at the end of the day. What wasn't all fun and games, however, was the monthly ransom his boss had to pay, to keep the dominant local gang off his back. While beating up inebriated tiny lizards was easy enough, there was little a lone, unarmed man could do against an entire group of well-equipped thugs, no matter their size.

But, as long as the aging bartender paid his dues, there was nothing to fear. A more pressing concern, was the elderly lizard's personal health. More and more often did he fall ill, passing the torch onto his daughter, who thoroughly despised Javert, since her father seemingly liked the human more than he did his own child. As soon as the old man kicked the bucket, the young man was back on the streets.

Part three: Guardsmen

Begging didn't work out too well, all those years ago, and he wasn't about to go back to starving in the streets. Javert needed a job. A way to provide for himself. For a brief moment, he considered becoming muscle-for-hire for the kobold gangs. But he didn't like them very much, and especially hated how they heckled the few lizards that tried to improve the slums, instead of festering in the filth.

On the verge of offering himself to the same group that extorted his previous boss, the human espied a poster, hanging off the side of a building, right outside of the kobold district.

Alas, never having had a formal education, Javert could not decypher the clear-cut writing. He'd never been taught how to read. While he didn't know what the poster said, some primal instinct, perhaps the call of fate itself, made the words speak to him, in a language he could not understand. Thank goodness destiny had more than one ace up its sleeve. A coincidentally passing guard explained that they were hiring. Try-outs were just a few hours away.

The maturing lad rushed to the eastern gatehouse, having to stop several times to ask for directions along the way. He'd long since refashioned the scraps of clothing that he wore, into a rather revealing loincloth. Fitting, for the kobold district, but not so much outside of it. The ladies he passed, frequently stared at his bare behind. But it was not them he had to impress. It was the drill sergeant.

Joining the small group of other men, from all walks of life, who wanted to join the guardsmen, Javert took a moment to get acquainted with them. There was a lazy farmer who'd lost his plot, a scraggy feline who was sick and tired of cat jokes, an old man who had worked hard his whole life, only to be out of a job at the dusk of his day, and a child half Javert's age, who was only there because his parents had sent him.

But the recruiter didn't care about their life stories. It wasn't his job to judge who this rag-tag band of misfits were. He was merely there to ensure the minimum of quality was met. And so, the applicants were made to do push-ups, sit-ups, a bit of running, and ultimately, they were made to wrestle one another, as was tradition. The old man had a heart-attack during the running segment. He did not make it back home. The child was too fearful to join the wrestling event. He ran back to his parents, having learned his lesson.

Only Javert, the farmer, and the cat were left. The drill sergeant nicknamed each of them: the savage, the bum and the pussy. The wrestling itself was a clear victory for Javert, the frequent bar brawls having perfectly prepared him for this very moment. The feline and the peasant were equally matched, although a cheap blow eventually settled their fight in the cat's favor. All three of them were hired.

After a trip to the guard-stationed hairdresser, the three were shipped off to the armory, where they were armed with a weapon of their choice, and draped in tabarded chainmail, flying the banner of the barony of Varanar. They enjoyed their first complimentary meal in the cantina, getting to know one another a bit better. Come nightfall, the rookies were shoved into a set of barracks. This is where they would relax, in between shifts. And relaxing soon turned to sleeping.

Come morningtime, the sergeant screamed all three of the newbies awake. They were made to dress up in the gear they'd received, and then they were kicked out into the streets. When Javert asked what exactly they were supposed to do, the only answer he received was: patrol until nighttime. Without any knowledge of the law, the trio set out to wander the streets, looking for ways to keep the peace.

Half a day passed without them encountering anything out of the ordinary. Their eyes were not yet trained to detect crime. Then came the wonderful idea to split up. The cat assigned himself to the mercantile quarter. The farmer patrolled the residential area. And Javert, clueless as ever, decided to tread where no guard had walked before: the kobold district.

Sentries never dared set foot in these devious slums, with danger all around, death lurking behind every dark and brooding corner. But the human didn't see it that way. To him, this was his home. This was where he was grew up. He knew several of the kobolds he passed on the streets. Heck, he'd fought half of them. These tiny lizards, were the closest thing to a family that he had.

But there were others who did not appreciate the gazing eye of the law in their midst. Stepping into a dead-end alleyway, Javert's exit was blocked by a group of kobold thugs. They were clearly not in the mood to talk. And so, for the first time ever, the rookie guardsman drew his chosen weapon: a broadsword, whose previous owner did not fare so well.

While fighting in the cramped confines of the kobold district was no easy task, the human showed an innate, instinctual talent, an affinity towards sword fighting. The kobolds came at him with daggers, but with his arm stretched out, he managed to keep them at bay. A few quick, yet powerful slashes were all it took to disarm the majority of the group. The rest ran away with their tails between their legs, realizing there were no easy pickings to be had here.

Using his guard-issued rope, Javert tied the remaining kobolds together. After collecting their crude weaponry, he marched them back to the guardhouse, where he was met with the unbelieving eyes of the sergeant that had sent him off this morning. The other two had returned empty-handed. Yet here Javert was, with half of an entire gang detained. The minor scratches he had sustained while in combat, was all the proof that was needed, to put the kobolds behind bars. The irony of sentencing others to the same fate that his mother endured, was lost on the glory-hounding human.

And so, just about every day went. As his skill in the blade grew, bigger and meaner groups attempted to assail the kobold district's only guardsman. While he was stabbed through his chainmail once or twice, they never managed to subdue him completely. Varanar's prison swelled with kobold criminals, most of which did not last long on the inside.

However, as weeks turned into months, Javert began to notice something unusual. The leader of the groups that attempted to ambush him, were seemingly always the same tenacious individuals. How were they getting out of jail so easily? The answer was revealed, when one particularly dumb lizard ran his mouth, bragging about how his master would have him walking free again in a matter of days.

That is when Javert realized what was going on. Kobolds, even when grouped together in gangs, were naught but petty criminals. Thieves and burglars, bandits at best. Not at all the kind that would openly attack a guardsmen, not even one in the middle of the kobold district. On top of that, they weren't typically smart enough to run extortion schemes on their own. There was someone pulling the strings. Javert set out to find who that was.

Dragons. The answer was always a dragon. Behind every criminal group in the kobold district, there was a wealthy and powerful merchant backing them, paying off corrupt wardens to free key players from prison, when they got caught. A lone guardsman could hardly go after the most powerful people in Varanar. His investigation, had reached a dead end.

Part four: The captain

That is, until the very captain of the guard took note of Javert. The aging man was retiring, and he wanted to pass his banner down to the most energetic and inspirational guard in town. The draconic baron protested, but it was not a noble's decision to make. Thus, Javert became the leader of the guards of Varanar. And with the new resources at his command, he knew just what to do.

There were many guards. Too many. First order of business was to weed out the weak. The recruitment scheme was revised, to only let in fit and capable men. Anyone who did not meet these new criteria, was promptly discharged. Every guard was to be lectured in the ways of the law, and properly trained by going on several supervised tours of duty.

At first, these changes made Javert quite unpopular. But, one thing he did, rallied the troops to his side. Since there were less guards now, and most of the costly educational courses were dealt with, he could allocate more funds to the thing most sentries valued most: their wallet. Salaries were increased across the board, the discipline and fairness of the Varanarian guards was hailed across the kingdom, and Javert was dubbed the greatest captain the city had ever seen, much to the dismay of the baron.

Now that the ranks had been prepared, it was time to bring law and order to the kobold district. For the first time in the city's history, patrols headed by the captain himself passed through the nest of lawlessness. Some kobolds were arrested, and others shot dead by way of righteous crossbow bolts. Evidence was gathered, and allegations were made. Alas, even as the captain of the guard, Javert soon discovered that the law was not enough to take down the masterminds behind the kobold gangs.

Still, increased operating costs, reduced personnel, and the damage to their public image, dissuaded a lot of the crime lords. The captain's approach worked, in the sense that it made the kobold district a much nicer place to be, for the tiny lizards that called it their home. Without leadership, the gangs returned to their roots of petty crime. It was this void of organization, that a certain deformed rat would later make use of, to rise to a position of power of his own.

But merchants were not the only ones in charge of the groups of kobold bandits. One night, while sleeping in his well-decorated room, Javert was awoken by the creaking of the floorboards. A kobold had snuck into his room, and was mere moments away from plunging its poisoned dagger into the human's heart. A quick kick turned the tide, and after snatching the weapon from mid-air, it was the kobold that met its end.

On the body of the lizard, Javert found a note. A missive, penned by someone most prominent, indeed. The gilded wax stamp at the very bottom confirmed the captain's suspicions. The assassin, was sent by the draconic baron himself.

Rallying his troops, the guardsmen stormed the keep. In the king's throne, there sat the treacherous dragon. But the ruler of all humans, awoken from his slumber by the commotion, stopped Javert before he could end the baron's life. The dragon was de-throned, and the king's men themselves exiled the backstabbing noble. To reward him for bringing this corruption to light, Javert was to be rewarded in an exceptional manner. He would become the new baron of Varanar.

Part five: The baron

An exuberant ceremony crowned in the new ruler of the land, who passed down the role of captain of the guard, to the feline he had been recruited alongside of. It was then, that the human learned, that life as the baron, is a far cry away from being a member of the guard. Several times, he had to be reminded that going out and patrolling the streets himself was not befitting of a man of his stature. Instead, he was to rule the land by convening with other prominent nobles, including the king himself.

Even more rules. Even more legislation. He tried, again and again to go after those very same dragons he was incapable of apprehending as the captain of the guard, but they had long since washed their hands clean, cutting ties with the kobold district, paving the way for a new wave of crime lords to rise to the top. And there was nothing Javert could do about it. The cat that succeeded him as the captain of the guard, was a little less capable than the human had judged him to be. Again, the quality of recruits dropped, corruption was on the rise, and the kobold district returned to being the wild, lawless land it once was.

Things remained this way, until the king decided to go on a crusade, to atone for a misdeed he refused to divulge about. In the ruler's absence, Javert held absolute power over Varanar. The king was a stern supporter of the dragons, but now that he had left, the other nobles were far more keen on speaking up against the draconic menace. The baron found that a lot of his servants shared the same sentiments that he did. Just about everyone thought of dragons, as little more than crooked bastards, crowding the upper class, barring other species from rising to greatness on their own account.

Colluding with one another, the human nobles, backed by the baron himself, passed a series of new laws, which systematically reduced the presence of dragons in the council that ruled the land. This attracted a lot of attention from those who sympathized with the ostracized aristocrats. When a wine taster fell dead, a few minutes after taking a sip of Javert's cup, an investigation was launched.

The poison contained within was traced back to an aging alchemist. An owl, hailing from the lands of the dragons. Again, and again, he attempted to assassinate the current ruler of the land, although the spies watching his every move ensured he never succeeded. Javert refused to have the bird arrested, hoping that one day, they could find evidence that the assassin was working on behalf of the dragon emperor himself.

Evidence was never found. The owl's carrier pigeons were too small and nimble to be shot from the sky. He must have been feeding them some of his potions. Besides, there were other things to worry about. The king of the closest of the dragon realms, had sent his daughter to the court of Javert. A grave mistake, sending a vulnerable young girl into the beating heart of the human resistance movement. On the baron's orders, she was violated, frequently and repeatedly, serving as an outlet for the growing hatred towards the dragons as a whole.

But, as was always the case, politics and laws prevented Javert from enacting the culmination of his rulership. There were two main decrees, that he had been pushing for ever since the king had left his keep. Both caused great controversy within the council, and even after half a decade of debates, the room was still split in half, as to whether or not to pass the new laws.

First and foremost, the baron wanted to strip dragons of all their rights. To make them little more than overgrown kobolds. Their great wealth and stature would be up for grabs, thus restoring the balance of power in Varanar, to the humans that had built the bloody city. But to enact such a decree, would be tantamount to declaring war on the dragon empire. And war could not be declared, without the king being present.

The second of Javert's radical proposals, was to grant rights to kobolds. At first, the mere notion shocked the council when it was proposed. But, the reasoning behind it was sound. If dragons are stripped of rights, then humans will flourish, effectively nullifying the entire current lower class, elevating them from poverty by the virtue of distributed riches.

This would leave a void. A demand for cheap labour, far too big for the slave trade alone to fill. If they make the tiny lizards proper citizens, there will be no more taboo around hiring them. They can become the new lower class. If directed, they can easily grow to be soldiers, or guards or masons or carpenters. Simple, easy jobs that don't require much thinking. And thanks to their numbers, they can work for far cheaper than the current lower class does. Everyone profits.

Plus, thanks to presence of the dragoness princess in their midst, the men of the council had already felt what it was like, to own a dragon slave. Would they rather have one of her, or a kobold to do their bidding? Especially that last part, won over a lot of noblemen. Sure, there were a few dragon slaves here and there, but they were far more rare, and ludicrously expensive compared to kobold underlings. The same men that agreed to the notion of stripping dragons of rights, were on board with granting those very rights, to kobolds instead.

Part six: The king

In his free time, Javert secretly hired a tutor, to teach him how to read and how to write, in the utmost of confidentiality. It was hard, to learn these things at his age, but gradually, the baron rose from illiteracy. As an assignment, his mentor had told him to pick a book from the royal library, and read it to completion. It is in that very library, that the baron found something, that was best left hidden.

A regal diary, penned by the king of all humans himself. One of the servants must have accidentally put it in the library, mistaking it for a borrowed book. In it, Javert read about how the king, while unmarried, was frequently entertained by all kinds of women. A very relatable entry, as the baron himself was keen on night-time company. However, the king then wrote about a woman that was pregnant, and claimed the child was his. Not wanting to deal with the scandal of having a premarital baby, he condemned the woman to the dungeon.

Further passages detail how the ruler of all of mankind, had kept a close eye on Javert, ever since the illegitimate son had joined the city guard. They always did bear some resemblance. In private, the king influenced the captain of the guard, to pass the title down to the unrecognized heir of the throne, hoping that would keep Javert out of danger.

Alas, it had the opposite effect. He really did have his father's overzealous attitude. When the bastard-captain threatened the then-baron, instead of siding with the ruling party, the king opted to usher his kin into nobility, at the risk of drawing the ire of dragons. In more recent years, the guilt of leaving Javert out of the loop, began to weigh heavy on the king's mind. And so, he set out on a crusade he knew he would never return from.

These revelations thoroughly shocked the baron. He was the heir to the throne?! Heck, with his father all but confirmed to be dead, he should be crowned the king! Yes. That was it. A plan formed in his mind. He should become the new king. And when he does ascend, he can see the realm prosper, or die trying.

Convening with the other rulers of the land, revealing what the king had written, Javert gathered support for his cause. A war was brewing. New tools were being created, ones the dragons were too stubborn to use. Black powder-based weaponry. Guns, that were easy to use, required little strength, and could pierce even the toughest of armor. Perfect to put in the hands of feeble kobolds.

In secret, the baron began to train a new kind of army. While too weak to operate crossbows, to draw longbows, or to serve in the front lines, kobolds were numerous enough to form entire legions. And a thousand angry little lizards, armed with guns, could easily match a more traditional dragon detachment. They would fight, in return for rights being granted to their entire kind, when all was said and done.

But war is a costly affair. Shipments of guns were exceedingly expensive, let alone the sky-high price of the small amount of cannons that were forged. In order to afford his revolution against all of dragonkind, Javert needed more money. A lot more money. But he'd already taxed the population of Varanar to its very limits. Any more, and he'd face uprisings.

Then, a wicked idea crossed his mind. Those gangs that extorted the tavern he worked for, when he was young. They made a lot of gold for their draconic masters. The kobold district, in general, remained untaxed. Perhaps it was time for them to pay, for a war that would only end up benefitting them.

In place of the dragon-led gang warfare of old, there was now a somewhat-unified group of kobold thugs that dominated the criminal side of the city. The Three-Tailed Rat Clan. The leader of the group was captured. He refused to cooperate, and was thus imprisoned in his own personal dungeon, far underneath the old, decrepit coliseum. Their second in command was easily bribed. Instead of following the rat's orders, he now reported to the baron directly.

While having a new source of kobolds to recruit from was nice, the criminal flow of revenue wasn't nearly enough to cover the expenses of mustering troops. Frustrated to find that there wasn't that much profit to be had in extorting the poor, the baron decreed that the Three-Tailed Rat Clan was to raise their fees, all across the board. He needed more. More than the kobolds alone could give.

In his desperation, another plan was forged. Criminals. Bandits. Thugs. He'd offer them amnesty. A return to society, with no strings attached. All they had to do, was partake in a new kind of tax collection. With the consent of local lords, who were promised a cut of the profits, groups of outlaws raided towns, collecting riches with which to fund the war.

Javert was getting closer to his goal. He needed just a teensy bit more. He'd already emptied the royal coffers, spending his father's gold on behalf of the realm. A tour of his growing armory, was all it took, for the lords that supported him in the council, to chip in their worth.

The final few thousands of coins, came from a surprising source. Grabgold Senior, one of the most prolific dragons in the world of organized crime in Varanar, contributed to the cause. All he knew, was that the baron was planning some kind of war. And war could be a very profitable thing, for people like Grabgold. Without knowledge of the plan to strip dragons of rights, he blindly tossed his money onto the growing pile.

And thus, the stage is set, for Javert's war to begin. Exiling the dragoness princess, who has been reduced to serving as little more than an unpaid prostitute, is only the first blow he strikes against dragonkind. In a few days, he will be crowned king. And then, neither council nor law, will suffice to protect the treacherous dragons from his wrath. They will pay for their crimes, both small and large. It is time for the humans, to take back what is rightfully theirs. And with kobolds by their side, they will fight to reclaim their position, as the rulers of this land.

Javert

Part one: Prisoners

Below the mighty keep that sits at the very center of the city of Varanar, a sprawling maze of dungeons, with cells of all sizes and shapes, is host to a wide array of convicts, slowly withering away in the dark, damp hell they call their home. Minor offences are usually settled through bodily punishments or monetary fees; meaning the prison is reserved for only the worst of the criminal scum. Rapists, murderers, traitors, and many others who haven't earned the mercy of a swift death.

Few who enter the dungeons in cuffs, ever end up leaving. Sentence times are often forgotten about, making almost every prisoner a lifetime inmate. And since they know they won't be getting out, most inmates have completely lost hope, falling prey to insanity, which usually leads to their untimely demise.

Besides starvation, suicide is the leading cause of death in the dungeons. Only the lucky, get to have their corpse taken out and buried. The others remain imprisoned, even long after they have passed away. Until their bones slowly turn to dust, will they be held captive. And even then, it'll take a rare gust of wind to scatter their remains across the bleak cell they once lived in.

In the outside world, the law ensures peace, and relatively fair treatment of all those with rights. In the Varanarian dungeon, none of that matters. The guards rule absolute. They decide who lives, and who dies, often demanding ridiculous, humiliating or degrading acts in return for food, water or other necessities.

Not all of the guards are completely unreasonable. For the right price, prisoners can lead decent lives within their confinement. Some would call it corruption, but in the dungeons this phenomenon is known as the prison economy. Thugs who have information to give, money stashes to reveal the location of, or accomplices on the outside that can do some dirty work for the crooked guards, are given preferential treatment over the rest of the scum.

The ones that have the most to give, are provided with lavish feasts, decorated interiors, any women or drugs they so desire, and the freedom to choose their cellmates. Fresh meat is often walked through a hallway filled with these honored guests, so that any interested parties can immediately ask to take the rookie in. Sometimes, this even escalates into small bidding wars, especially when it is a woman being brought in.

Few females ever get put into the dungeons, often receiving penalties in the public stockades instead. One such woman, pregnant nonetheless, was brought in half a century ago. On the king's orders, she was put in a cell all by herself, far away from everyone else. There, she gave birth to a baby boy, which she named Javert. With no father around, the child inherited his mother's last name. Toutemort.

At the time, the young king of humans had seen fit, to hand the barony of Varanar over to a dragon, to maintain the good relationship between the human kingdom, and the draconic empire to the east. As such, many of the wardens roaming the dungeons, were dragons, instead of humans. A group of these out-of-place guards, took a particular interest in the lone woman breastfeeding her baby boy. Word quickly spread. With rising notoriety, came those with ill intent.

And so it was, that the growing Javert bore witness to his mother being abused and beaten, by many of the patrolling squads of well-armed dragons. Like clockwork, they returned multiple times per day, forcing the woman to praise dragonkind for their amusement. If she refused, they'd threaten Javert. She didn't want anything bad to happen to her child. Even at the cost of what was left of her pride.

Years of daily abuse went by. As the woman's resistance faded, the dragons grew ever-more violent, trying to get a rise out of her, to fuel their sadistic urges. One day, things went overboard. A choke-happy guard squeezed her supple neck a little too hard. A loud snap signalled the end of the woman's life, as Javert watched on in horror.

The remorseless guards, only keeping the boy around to threaten his mother with, decided that it'd be best to let him die out on the streets, than having to stand his incessant wailing over the dead whore. The kid was grabbed, escorted out of the dungeon, promptly kicked out of the keep, and into the streets, the bright daylight making it hard to see. Mere minutes after the death of his mother, he was all alone in the middle of a city he'd lived in for his entire life, yet he had never laid his half-blinded eyes upon it.

Part two: Street rats

Javert aimlessly wandered the streets, weeping profusely over the loss of the one person he held dear. His entire world had been torn away from him, replaced by the alien sensation of freedom. Come nightfall, the exhausted boy collapsed in an alleyway. While prison was anything but warm, nothing could have prepared him for a cold winter night spent outside. He would have frozen to death, were it not for the ragged pieces of his mother's torn clothing, draped around his shivering frame.

Come morningtime, the first rays of sunlight offered slight solace from the icy frigidness. Hunger setting in, the young boy began to beg for scraps of food. But, in a time of little excess, there was naught to spare for a street urchin like Javert. The poor lacked the means to assist, the middle class had no time to help, and the rich were cold and heartless as ever. Javert ended up eating even less than he did in the dungeon. Which is to say: nothing.

Days passed. While the child had found some new ways to keep warm at night -- mostly burning old, discarded wooden boxes -- his malnourishment was reaching critical levels. So weak he could barely even walk anymore, delirious from lack of sustenance, Javert stumbled into the one part of town he had deliberately avoided until then. The kobold district. The one place, where he could perhaps find someone less fortunate than he was.

Kobolds wasting away in the squalor of the slummiest part of town was business as usual, but a starving human wandering the decrepit back-alleys, was a rare sight, for sure. By the simple virtue of being a kobold, many of the lizards who called this place home couldn't dream of living a better life than they already were. But to see a human brought so low, as to hobble into hell looking for handouts, gave them a smug sense of satisfaction. For once in their short and insignificant lives, the lowest of the low had found someone even worse off than they.

The myriad of gangs wandering the slums saw no point to mugging or antagonizing the boy. He had nothing worth of value, and there was no fun to be had in bullying someone too weak to fight back. To Javert's great surprise, the lizards showed more compassion than his own people had. While they had nothing to give, at least they tolerated his presence, moreso than the merchants and the guards in the rest of the city.

At the end of yet another day of suffering and hunger, the owner of one of the few local businesses, a tavern, invited the child inside. While wary of dealing with strangers, especially those of another species, Javert had nothing left to lose. He accepted the invitation, and was greeted with open arms, and a bowl of warm sludge, remotely resembling soup. Not having eaten in almost a week, the boy voraciously devoured the broth, especially savoring the thick chunks of mystery meat contained within.

The kobold that ran the place was a smart one. It saw the long-term benefits, in befriending a human. The street-rat was offered a deal, the same deal that, decades later, would be presented to a certain red-scaled fighter. In return for some minor work, he could stay at the tavern overnight, and he'd be fed one bowl of slop per day. Far more than he'd be able to get on his own.

There wasn't much of a choice to be made, between starving and freezing to death, or sweeping the floor and doing some chores. And so, the young Javert became the only human employee in the entire kobold district. He spent his days serving drinks, helping his boss cook food, cleaning the place, and munching down his daily serving of soup.

Over time, the boy grew into a young man. The bigger he got, the more his duties shifted away from tidying, towards becoming the bouncer of the kobold tavern. Having someone twice the size of the average patron around, worked wonders to uphold the peace. Even when drunk off their asses, most of the patrons realized that a fist fight with a human could only end poorly for them. The few that did cause trouble, were quickly and decisively dealt with.

This is how Javert got his first taste of dispensing justice. Fisticuffs with drunken kobolds, as the rest of the tavern cheered on. While tempers ran high, it was all in good spirits, at the end of the day. What wasn't all fun and games, however, was the monthly ransom his boss had to pay, to keep the dominant local gang off his back. While beating up inebriated tiny lizards was easy enough, there was little a lone, unarmed man could do against an entire group of well-equipped thugs, no matter their size.

But, as long as the aging bartender paid his dues, there was nothing to fear. A more pressing concern, was the elderly lizard's personal health. More and more often did he fall ill, passing the torch onto his daughter, who thoroughly despised Javert, since her father seemingly liked the human more than he did his own child. As soon as the old man kicked the bucket, the young man was back on the streets.

Part three: Guardsmen

Begging didn't work out too well, all those years ago, and he wasn't about to go back to starving in the streets. Javert needed a job. A way to provide for himself. For a brief moment, he considered becoming muscle-for-hire for the kobold gangs. But he didn't like them very much, and especially hated how they heckled the few lizards that tried to improve the slums, instead of festering in the filth.

On the verge of offering himself to the same group that extorted his previous boss, the human espied a poster, hanging off the side of a building, right outside of the kobold district.

Alas, never having had a formal education, Javert could not decypher the clear-cut writing. He'd never been taught how to read. While he didn't know what the poster said, some primal instinct, perhaps the call of fate itself, made the words speak to him, in a language he could not understand. Thank goodness destiny had more than one ace up its sleeve. A coincidentally passing guard explained that they were hiring. Try-outs were just a few hours away.

The maturing lad rushed to the eastern gatehouse, having to stop several times to ask for directions along the way. He'd long since refashioned the scraps of clothing that he wore, into a rather revealing loincloth. Fitting, for the kobold district, but not so much outside of it. The ladies he passed, frequently stared at his bare behind. But it was not them he had to impress. It was the drill sergeant.

Joining the small group of other men, from all walks of life, who wanted to join the guardsmen, Javert took a moment to get acquainted with them. There was a lazy farmer who'd lost his plot, a scraggy feline who was sick and tired of cat jokes, an old man who had worked hard his whole life, only to be out of a job at the dusk of his day, and a child half Javert's age, who was only there because his parents had sent him.

But the recruiter didn't care about their life stories. It wasn't his job to judge who this rag-tag band of misfits were. He was merely there to ensure the minimum of quality was met. And so, the applicants were made to do push-ups, sit-ups, a bit of running, and ultimately, they were made to wrestle one another, as was tradition. The old man had a heart-attack during the running segment. He did not make it back home. The child was too fearful to join the wrestling event. He ran back to his parents, having learned his lesson.

Only Javert, the farmer, and the cat were left. The drill sergeant nicknamed each of them: the savage, the bum and the pussy. The wrestling itself was a clear victory for Javert, the frequent bar brawls having perfectly prepared him for this very moment. The feline and the peasant were equally matched, although a cheap blow eventually settled their fight in the cat's favor. All three of them were hired.

After a trip to the guard-stationed hairdresser, the three were shipped off to the armory, where they were armed with a weapon of their choice, and draped in tabarded chainmail, flying the banner of the barony of Varanar. They enjoyed their first complimentary meal in the cantina, getting to know one another a bit better. Come nightfall, the rookies were shoved into a set of barracks. This is where they would relax, in between shifts. And relaxing soon turned to sleeping.

Come morningtime, the sergeant screamed all three of the newbies awake. They were made to dress up in the gear they'd received, and then they were kicked out into the streets. When Javert asked what exactly they were supposed to do, the only answer he received was: patrol until nighttime. Without any knowledge of the law, the trio set out to wander the streets, looking for ways to keep the peace.

Half a day passed without them encountering anything out of the ordinary. Their eyes were not yet trained to detect crime. Then came the wonderful idea to split up. The cat assigned himself to the mercantile quarter. The farmer patrolled the residential area. And Javert, clueless as ever, decided to tread where no guard had walked before: the kobold district.

Sentries never dared set foot in these devious slums, with danger all around, death lurking behind every dark and brooding corner. But the human didn't see it that way. To him, this was his home. This was where he was grew up. He knew several of the kobolds he passed on the streets. Heck, he'd fought half of them. These tiny lizards, were the closest thing to a family that he had.

But there were others who did not appreciate the gazing eye of the law in their midst. Stepping into a dead-end alleyway, Javert's exit was blocked by a group of kobold thugs. They were clearly not in the mood to talk. And so, for the first time ever, the rookie guardsman drew his chosen weapon: a broadsword, whose previous owner did not fare so well.

While fighting in the cramped confines of the kobold district was no easy task, the human showed an innate, instinctual talent, an affinity towards sword fighting. The kobolds came at him with daggers, but with his arm stretched out, he managed to keep them at bay. A few quick, yet powerful slashes were all it took to disarm the majority of the group. The rest ran away with their tails between their legs, realizing there were no easy pickings to be had here.

Using his guard-issued rope, Javert tied the remaining kobolds together. After collecting their crude weaponry, he marched them back to the guardhouse, where he was met with the unbelieving eyes of the sergeant that had sent him off this morning. The other two had returned empty-handed. Yet here Javert was, with half of an entire gang detained. The minor scratches he had sustained while in combat, was all the proof that was needed, to put the kobolds behind bars. The irony of sentencing others to the same fate that his mother endured, was lost on the glory-hounding human.

And so, just about every day went. As his skill in the blade grew, bigger and meaner groups attempted to assail the kobold district's only guardsman. While he was stabbed through his chainmail once or twice, they never managed to subdue him completely. Varanar's prison swelled with kobold criminals, most of which did not last long on the inside.

However, as weeks turned into months, Javert began to notice something unusual. The leader of the groups that attempted to ambush him, were seemingly always the same tenacious individuals. How were they getting out of jail so easily? The answer was revealed, when one particularly dumb lizard ran his mouth, bragging about how his master would have him walking free again in a matter of days.

That is when Javert realized what was going on. Kobolds, even when grouped together in gangs, were naught but petty criminals. Thieves and burglars, bandits at best. Not at all the kind that would openly attack a guardsmen, not even one in the middle of the kobold district. On top of that, they weren't typically smart enough to run extortion schemes on their own. There was someone pulling the strings. Javert set out to find who that was.

Dragons. The answer was always a dragon. Behind every criminal group in the kobold district, there was a wealthy and powerful merchant backing them, paying off corrupt wardens to free key players from prison, when they got caught. A lone guardsman could hardly go after the most powerful people in Varanar. His investigation, had reached a dead end.

Part four: The captain

That is, until the very captain of the guard took note of Javert. The aging man was retiring, and he wanted to pass his banner down to the most energetic and inspirational guard in town. The draconic baron protested, but it was not a noble's decision to make. Thus, Javert became the leader of the guards of Varanar. And with the new resources at his command, he knew just what to do.

There were many guards. Too many. First order of business was to weed out the weak. The recruitment scheme was revised, to only let in fit and capable men. Anyone who did not meet these new criteria, was promptly discharged. Every guard was to be lectured in the ways of the law, and properly trained by going on several supervised tours of duty.

At first, these changes made Javert quite unpopular. But, one thing he did, rallied the troops to his side. Since there were less guards now, and most of the costly educational courses were dealt with, he could allocate more funds to the thing most sentries valued most: their wallet. Salaries were increased across the board, the discipline and fairness of the Varanarian guards was hailed across the kingdom, and Javert was dubbed the greatest captain the city had ever seen, much to the dismay of the baron.

Now that the ranks had been prepared, it was time to bring law and order to the kobold district. For the first time in the city's history, patrols headed by the captain himself passed through the nest of lawlessness. Some kobolds were arrested, and others shot dead by way of righteous crossbow bolts. Evidence was gathered, and allegations were made. Alas, even as the captain of the guard, Javert soon discovered that the law was not enough to take down the masterminds behind the kobold gangs.

Still, increased operating costs, reduced personnel, and the damage to their public image, dissuaded a lot of the crime lords. The captain's approach worked, in the sense that it made the kobold district a much nicer place to be, for the tiny lizards that called it their home. Without leadership, the gangs returned to their roots of petty crime. It was this void of organization, that a certain deformed rat would later make use of, to rise to a position of power of his own.

But merchants were not the only ones in charge of the groups of kobold bandits. One night, while sleeping in his well-decorated room, Javert was awoken by the creaking of the floorboards. A kobold had snuck into his room, and was mere moments away from plunging its poisoned dagger into the human's heart. A quick kick turned the tide, and after snatching the weapon from mid-air, it was the kobold that met its end.

On the body of the lizard, Javert found a note. A missive, penned by someone most prominent, indeed. The gilded wax stamp at the very bottom confirmed the captain's suspicions. The assassin, was sent by the draconic baron himself.

Rallying his troops, the guardsmen stormed the keep. In the king's throne, there sat the treacherous dragon. But the ruler of all humans, awoken from his slumber by the commotion, stopped Javert before he could end the baron's life. The dragon was de-throned, and the king's men themselves exiled the backstabbing noble. To reward him for bringing this corruption to light, Javert was to be rewarded in an exceptional manner. He would become the new baron of Varanar.

Part five: The baron

An exuberant ceremony crowned in the new ruler of the land, who passed down the role of captain of the guard, to the feline he had been recruited alongside of. It was then, that the human learned, that life as the baron, is a far cry away from being a member of the guard. Several times, he had to be reminded that going out and patrolling the streets himself was not befitting of a man of his stature. Instead, he was to rule the land by convening with other prominent nobles, including the king himself.

Even more rules. Even more legislation. He tried, again and again to go after those very same dragons he was incapable of apprehending as the captain of the guard, but they had long since washed their hands clean, cutting ties with the kobold district, paving the way for a new wave of crime lords to rise to the top. And there was nothing Javert could do about it. The cat that succeeded him as the captain of the guard, was a little less capable than the human had judged him to be. Again, the quality of recruits dropped, corruption was on the rise, and the kobold district returned to being the wild, lawless land it once was.

Things remained this way, until the king decided to go on a crusade, to atone for a misdeed he refused to divulge about. In the ruler's absence, Javert held absolute power over Varanar. The king was a stern supporter of the dragons, but now that he had left, the other nobles were far more keen on speaking up against the draconic menace. The baron found that a lot of his servants shared the same sentiments that he did. Just about everyone thought of dragons, as little more than crooked bastards, crowding the upper class, barring other species from rising to greatness on their own account.

Colluding with one another, the human nobles, backed by the baron himself, passed a series of new laws, which systematically reduced the presence of dragons in the council that ruled the land. This attracted a lot of attention from those who sympathized with the ostracized aristocrats. When a wine taster fell dead, a few minutes after taking a sip of Javert's cup, an investigation was launched.

The poison contained within was traced back to an aging alchemist. An owl, hailing from the lands of the dragons. Again, and again, he attempted to assassinate the current ruler of the land, although the spies watching his every move ensured he never succeeded. Javert refused to have the bird arrested, hoping that one day, they could find evidence that the assassin was working on behalf of the dragon emperor himself.

Evidence was never found. The owl's carrier pigeons were too small and nimble to be shot from the sky. He must have been feeding them some of his potions. Besides, there were other things to worry about. The king of the closest of the dragon realms, had sent his daughter to the court of Javert. A grave mistake, sending a vulnerable young girl into the beating heart of the human resistance movement. On the baron's orders, she was beaten, frequently and repeatedly, serving as an outlet for the growing hatred towards the dragons as a whole.

But, as was always the case, politics and laws prevented Javert from enacting the culmination of his rulership. There were two main decrees, that he had been pushing for ever since the king had left his keep. Both caused great controversy within the council, and even after half a decade of debates, the room was still split in half, as to whether or not to pass the new laws.

First and foremost, the baron wanted to strip dragons of all their rights. To make them little more than overgrown kobolds. Their great wealth and stature would be up for grabs, thus restoring the balance of power in Varanar, to the humans that had built the bloody city. But to enact such a decree, would be tantamount to declaring war on the dragon empire. And war could not be declared, without the king being present.

The second of Javert's radical proposals, was to grant rights to kobolds. At first, the mere notion shocked the council when it was proposed. But, the reasoning behind it was sound. If dragons are stripped of rights, then humans will flourish, effectively nullifying the entire current lower class, elevating them from poverty by the virtue of distributed riches.

This would leave a void. A demand for cheap labour, far too big for the slave trade alone to fill. If they make the tiny lizards proper citizens, there will be no more taboo around hiring them. They can become the new lower class. If directed, they can easily grow to be soldiers, or guards or masons or carpenters. Simple, easy jobs that don't require much thinking. And thanks to their numbers, they can work for far cheaper than the current lower class does. Everyone profits.

Plus, thanks to presence of the dragoness princess in their midst, the men of the council had already felt what it was like, to own a dragon slave. Would they rather have one of her, or a kobold to do their bidding? Especially that last part, won over a lot of noblemen. Sure, there were a few dragon slaves here and there, but they were far more rare, and ludicrously expensive compared to kobold underlings. The same men that agreed to the notion of stripping dragons of rights, were on board with granting those very rights, to kobolds instead.

Part six: The king

In his free time, Javert secretly hired a tutor, to teach him how to read and how to write, in the utmost of confidentiality. It was hard, to learn these things at his age, but gradually, the baron rose from illiteracy. As an assignment, his mentor had told him to pick a book from the royal library, and read it to completion. It is in that very library, that the baron found something, that was best left hidden.

A regal diary, penned by the king of all humans himself. One of the servants must have accidentally put it in the library, mistaking it for a borrowed book. In it, Javert read about how the king, while unmarried, was frequently entertained by all kinds of women. A very relatable entry, as the baron himself was keen on night-time company. However, the king then wrote about a woman that was pregnant, and claimed the child was his. Not wanting to deal with the scandal of having a premarital baby, he condemned the woman to the dungeon.

Further passages detail how the ruler of all of mankind, had kept a close eye on Javert, ever since the illegitimate son had joined the city guard. They always did bear some resemblance. In private, the king influenced the captain of the guard, to pass the title down to the unrecognized heir of the throne, hoping that would keep Javert out of danger.

Alas, it had the opposite effect. He really did have his father's overzealous attitude. When the bastard-captain threatened the then-baron, instead of siding with the ruling party, the king opted to usher his kin into nobility, at the risk of drawing the ire of dragons. In more recent years, the guilt of leaving Javert out of the loop, began to weigh heavy on the king's mind. And so, he set out on a crusade he knew he would never return from.

These revelations thoroughly shocked the baron. He was the heir to the throne?! Heck, with his father all but confirmed to be dead, he should be crowned the king! Yes. That was it. A plan formed in his mind. He should become the new king. And when he does ascend, he can see the realm prosper, or die trying.

Convening with the other rulers of the land, revealing what the king had written, Javert gathered support for his cause. A war was brewing. New tools were being created, ones the dragons were too stubborn to use. Black powder-based weaponry. Guns, that were easy to use, required little strength, and could pierce even the toughest of armor. Perfect to put in the hands of feeble kobolds.

In secret, the baron began to train a new kind of army. While too weak to operate crossbows, to draw longbows, or to serve in the front lines, kobolds were numerous enough to form entire legions. And a thousand angry little lizards, armed with guns, could easily match a more traditional dragon detachment. They would fight, in return for rights being granted to their entire kind, when all was said and done.

But war is a costly affair. Shipments of guns were exceedingly expensive, let alone the sky-high price of the small amount of cannons that were forged. In order to afford his revolution against all of dragonkind, Javert needed more money. A lot more money. But he'd already taxed the population of Varanar to its very limits. Any more, and he'd face uprisings.

Then, a wicked idea crossed his mind. Those gangs that extorted the tavern he worked for, when he was young. They made a lot of gold for their draconic masters. The kobold district, in general, remained untaxed. Perhaps it was time for them to pay, for a war that would only end up benefitting them.

In place of the dragon-led gang warfare of old, there was now a somewhat-unified group of kobold thugs that dominated the criminal side of the city. The Three-Tailed Rat Clan. The leader of the group was captured. He refused to cooperate, and was thus imprisoned in his own personal dungeon, far underneath the old, decrepit coliseum. Their second in command was easily bribed. Instead of following the rat's orders, he now reported to the baron directly.

While having a new source of kobolds to recruit from was nice, the criminal flow of revenue wasn't nearly enough to cover the expenses of mustering troops. Frustrated to find that there wasn't that much profit to be had in extorting the poor, the baron decreed that the Three-Tailed Rat Clan was to raise their fees, all across the board. He needed more. More than the kobolds alone could give.

In his desperation, another plan was forged. Criminals. Bandits. Thugs. He'd offer them amnesty. A return to society, with no strings attached. All they had to do, was partake in a new kind of tax collection. With the consent of local lords, who were promised a cut of the profits, groups of outlaws raided towns, collecting riches with which to fund the war.

Javert was getting closer to his goal. He needed just a teensy bit more. He'd already emptied the royal coffers, spending his father's gold on behalf of the realm. A tour of his growing armory, was all it took, for the lords that supported him in the council, to chip in their worth.

The final few thousands of coins, came from a surprising source. Grabgold Senior, one of the most prolific dragons in the world of organized crime in Varanar, contributed to the cause. All he knew, was that the baron was planning some kind of war. And war could be a very profitable thing, for people like Grabgold. Without knowledge of the plan to strip dragons of rights, he blindly tossed his money onto the growing pile.

And thus, the stage is set, for Javert's war to begin. Exiling the dragoness princess, who has been reduced to serving as little more than an unpaid chambermaid, is only the first blow he strikes against dragonkind. In a few days, he will be crowned king. And then, neither council nor law, will suffice to protect the treacherous dragons from his wrath. They will pay for their crimes, both small and large. It is time for the humans, to take back what is rightfully theirs. And with kobolds by their side, they will fight to reclaim their position, as the rulers of this land.

Kai

Life underneath the surface of the water is very different from what us land dwellers know and love. In the cold, dark depths of oceans, rivers, lakes and seas, there exist tiny settlements, each no larger than a village, host to a myriad of sentient aquatic beings. Everything from naga to mermen, kappa turtles to elongated sea-dragons, and even a few more malignant entities, can be found at various depths beneath the waves.

Most aquatic species prefer to live at the very bottom of whatever body of water they call home. Others create their buildings out of floating materials, anchored to the ocean floor, forming elevated villages mostly safe from sand-dwelling hazards. The rare and elusive aqua-elves live in kelp forests, tying strands of seaweed together to form primitive huts. Many more developing races use natural underwater caves as their habitats.

Last, but not least, there are rumors of a kind of sentient squids, living in the deepest of trenches, where they are protected by the crushing pressure and utter lack of light. It is said they only emerge to kidnap, raid, pillage and kill, dragging unfortunate victims down into the depths, for reasons unknown. But of course, nobody believes such fairytales.

The various budding underwater societies have vastly differing social and economic frameworks. Emerging species adopt hunter-gatherer lifestyles, feeding off of the bountiful fish available all around them, harvesting underwater plants to supplement their diets. More developed kinds of fishpeople tend to have a more diverse set of professions available, ranging from barter-traders to farmers, and even dedicated engineers and scientists, pushing the edge of underwater technology. The most advanced of aquatic nations have recently discovered religion, and throughout waterways the entire world over, a myriad of temples have been constructed, where priests and priestesses chant the names of their pagan gods in praise.

War is a concept unfamiliar to seadwellers. There is simply so much unclaimed space underneath the waves, that few foreign tribes ever come into contact with one another. And even when they do, the ocean is far more than big enough for the both of them to coexist peacefully. There is simply no cause for conflict, and at the current rate of growth, there won't be for millenia to come.

But still, the watery depths are not without danger. While there is no immediate need for a warrior-caste, there will always be threats too great for the hunters alone to deal with. Overgrown sharks, massive schools of piranhas, and the occasional thief, burglar or murderer all need to be stopped dead in their tracks, lest they become a danger for the rest of the village. None of these threats are a match for the champions.

Each village designates a single man, their biggest and strongest of kin, as the reigning champion. No expenses are spared to fabricate or otherwise acquire the very best gear possible for these massive titans of seamen. Once chosen to be the protector of the settlement, champions are plunged into a life of constant training, pushing their bodies to the very limits, to ensure that they are ready to rise to the challenge, whenever they are needed to.

While not exactly the de-facto rulers, champions hold great prestige within their tribes. In between training sessions and glorious battle, they live lives of utmost luxury, or at least as extravagant as things get in the watery world. They are offered the finest selection of foods, almost any woman they set their eyes on can be theirs, and as long as the village is kept safe, they will never have to work a single day of their lives. In some regions, they are even worshipped as venerable avatars of their gods, aspects of the divine made whole.

A chieftain or an elder may govern the village as a whole, but when it it comes to external diplomacy, it often falls to the local champion to settle affairs, especially when the need to go on land arrives. This is why seamen are often regarded as highly skilled, well-trained and lethal combatants by land dwellers. All they meet is the lone, battle-harded champion, and not the many tribal families cowering behind him.

Seeing as not even aquatic traders dare to venture outside of the water, champions are free to recount their own version of the events that take place on dry land. Unbeknownst to their watery kin, the protectors of the less dangerous areas sometimes take advantage of this. Diplomatic missions will start taking months to complete, when the chosen warrior discovers that there are certain luxuries which can not be found below the tides. Beer, wine, women that aren't covered in rough scales, and cooked food are usually suffice to tempt even the most stalwart of fishmen.

In return for these luxuries, the aquatic warrior trade exotic, deep-sea trinkets entrusted to them by their village. Once they run out of baubles to pawn, they pay for their stay in other ways. Nagas in particular, have earned a reputation for being highly valued sellswords. Warriors without equal, who can turn the tides of battle on their own, provided that they are kept more pampered than they were back home.

Kai, the naga warrior, is the designated champion of his tribe. He lives in an underwater village, at the ocean-delta of the river that flows through Varanar city. Here, the nagas have built impressive structures out of the large, flat stones that litter the the depths. They have been hewn and affixed, to form everything from magnificent, unrivaled temples, to simple, functional, practical homes.

Due to its auspicious location, Kai's home-settlement is a quiet and peaceful place. Local fauna poses no threat whatsoever, and the humans that live up above have no reason to interfere with the seadwellers' affairs. As such, the champion's services are rarely called upon. For the first few decades of his life, the most interesting assignments the naga was sent on, were delivery missions to neighbouring tribes.

Then, during another dreadfully boring day, the village's elder council came up with the bright idea to initiate diplomacy with the surface-dwellers. Suddenly, Kai's life became a whole lot more interesting. He was sent to meet with various local lords. The sights, sounds, smells and tastes of the above-water world thrilled the warrior to no end. Like many others like him, he became hooked to the allures of human towns.

Since he wasn't really needed at his village, Kai began to stay out of the water for longer periods at a time, indulging in the joys of life that could not be obtained below the surface of the water. Upon returning to the village, he fabricated tales of tough negotiations, along with, of course, a reason to go back again. There was always another loose end to tie up, a lord to convince, or a diplomatic tension to ease.

But instead of discussing boring politics with ugly humans, the naga spent most of his time on the surface at brothels, bars and other places of ill repute. To pay for his extravagant surface-pleasures, he offered his services as a bouncer, a bounty-hunter and even a city guard for hire. Despite impressive work, the fishman racked up a considerable amount of debt. Usually, he'd avoid having to pay off his fees by slithering back into the water. But one morning, he woke up drunk in bed next to the local liege's daughter, with the ruler himself standing bewildered in the doorway.

And so, Kai was offered a choice. Be levied into the standing military, and join an ongoing dispute between the lord and his rival, or get thrown in prison and left to rot for a few decades, along with the wench of a noble lady he'd spent the night with. And thus, the champion became a man-at-arms, fighting for a cause which he knew nothing of, for a tribe of land-dwellers he didn't quite care for. But hey, at least it was better than wasting away in jail.

The war was brutal and well-fought on both sides. Kai excelled amongst his human cohorts, felling several dozen of infantrymen, knights and archers alike. Consistently and repeatedly, he broke through massive formations, singlehandedly beating seemingly impossible odds. In a duel with an enemy general, Kai lost one of his eyes. But then, with a single, heavy stab of his spear, the war was ended, and his service to the humans, was complete.

Returning to the village, Kai spun tales of his heroic bravery, convincing the newly-crowned chieftain that intervening in the humans' struggles was a well-planned move of great necessity. In a way, he wasn't wrong. It took almost dying to get the champion to realize how good he had it at home, with nothing to worry about, and no work to be done. Back to peace and quiet, although his soul remained in turmoil.

The naga was never quite the same ever since his forced conscription. Losing one of his eyes had made him more paranoid, always gazing around, looking for non-existant combatants trying to stab him in the back. Luckily, the local priestesses were more than willing to ease his burden of mind, offering pleasant chats, relaxing massages and shoulders to cry on. Alas, unlike the ladies of dry land, the aqua-nuns were never willing to go beyond simple pleasantries.

That is, until one day, a strong current drew in a strange, heavily diluted substance from far upstream. The nagas could not smell it, nor see it, nor could they taste it, but everyone in the village could feel a distinct, ever-present, yet exceedingly remote tingling. A tiny hint of excitement at the back of their minds, which gradually grew into arousal, as weeks turned to months. The males and females of the tribe grew closer to one another, inexplicably attracted, increasingly eager and willing to fornicate and to procreate.

Kai knew something was off, when the many priestesses he consorted with, were all of a sudden more than willing to take their platonic relationship to the next level. He wasn't one to complain, finally able to convince the few women that initially refused his advances, to spend the night at the champion's luxurious abode.

With a lot of the women of suitable age growing pregnant, even the ones that swore a vow of chastity, the population of the village was steadily expanding. What prophets and mystics decried as a curse, turned out to be a major boon for the bustling aquatic settlement. It was only when the chieftain caught his own wife in bed with the champion, that he opted to agree with the pessimists calling the heightened libido a bad thing.

And so, Kai was sent on a mission far upstream, to find the source of what ailed the village. The warrior was far less than eager to return things to how they used to be, but denying a request from the chieftain was not an option, especially not after the vile act he was caught in the middle of. Having fun with the priestesses was nice while it lasted. Sadly, all good things must come to an end.

Kai

Life underneath the surface of the water is very different from what us land dwellers know and love. In the cold, dark depths of oceans, rivers, lakes and seas, there exist tiny settlements, each no larger than a village, host to a myriad of sentient aquatic beings. Everything from naga to mermen, kappa turtles to elongated sea-dragons, and even a few more malignant entities, can be found at various depths beneath the waves.

Most aquatic species prefer to live at the very bottom of whatever body of water they call home. Others create their buildings out of floating materials, anchored to the ocean floor, forming elevated villages mostly safe from sand-dwelling hazards. The rare and elusive aqua-elves live in kelp forests, tying strands of seaweed together to form primitive huts. Many more developing races use natural underwater caves as their habitats.

Last, but not least, there are rumors of a kind of sentient squids, living in the deepest of trenches, where they are protected by the crushing pressure and utter lack of light. It is said they only emerge to kidnap, raid, pillage and kill, dragging unfortunate victims down into the depths, for reasons unknown. But of course, nobody believes such fairytales.

The various budding underwater societies have vastly differing social and economic frameworks. Emerging species adopt hunter-gatherer lifestyles, feeding off of the bountiful fish available all around them, harvesting underwater plants to supplement their diets. More developed kinds of fishpeople tend to have a more diverse set of professions available, ranging from barter-traders to farmers, and even dedicated engineers and scientists, pushing the edge of underwater technology. The most advanced of aquatic nations have recently discovered religion, and throughout waterways the entire world over, a myriad of temples have been constructed, where priests and priestesses chant the names of their pagan gods in praise.

War is a concept unfamiliar to seadwellers. There is simply so much unclaimed space underneath the waves, that few foreign tribes ever come into contact with one another. And even when they do, the ocean is far more than big enough for the both of them to coexist peacefully. There is simply no cause for conflict, and at the current rate of growth, there won't be for millenia to come.

But still, the watery depths are not without danger. While there is no immediate need for a warrior-caste, there will always be threats too great for the hunters alone to deal with. Overgrown sharks, massive schools of piranhas, and the occasional thief, burglar or murderer all need to be stopped dead in their tracks, lest they become a danger for the rest of the village. None of these threats are a match for the champions.

Each village designates a single man, their biggest and strongest of kin, as the reigning champion. No expenses are spared to fabricate or otherwise acquire the very best gear possible for these massive titans of seamen. Once chosen to be the protector of the settlement, champions are plunged into a life of constant training, pushing their bodies to the very limits, to ensure that they are ready to rise to the challenge, whenever they are needed to.

While not exactly the de-facto rulers, champions hold great prestige within their tribes. In between training sessions and glorious battle, they live lives of utmost luxury, or at least as extravagant as things get in the watery world. They are offered the finest selection of foods, almost any woman they set their eyes on can be theirs, and as long as the village is kept safe, they will never have to work a single day of their lives. In some regions, they are even worshipped as venerable avatars of their gods, aspects of the divine made whole.

A chieftain or an elder may govern the village as a whole, but when it it comes to external diplomacy, it often falls to the local champion to settle affairs, especially when the need to go on land arrives. This is why seamen are often regarded as highly skilled, well-trained and lethal combatants by land dwellers. All they meet is the lone, battle-harded champion, and not the many tribal families cowering behind him.

Seeing as not even aquatic traders dare to venture outside of the water, champions are free to recount their own version of the events that take place on dry land. Unbeknownst to their watery kin, the protectors of the less dangerous areas sometimes take advantage of this. Diplomatic missions will start taking months to complete, when the chosen warrior discovers that there are certain luxuries which can not be found below the tides. Beer, wine, women that aren't covered in rough scales, and cooked food are usually suffice to tempt even the most stalwart of fishmen.

In return for these luxuries, the aquatic warrior trade exotic, deep-sea trinkets entrusted to them by their village. Once they run out of baubles to pawn, they pay for their stay in other ways. Nagas in particular, have earned a reputation for being highly valued sellswords. Warriors without equal, who can turn the tides of battle on their own, provided that they are kept more pampered than they were back home.

Kai, the naga warrior, is the designated champion of his tribe. He lives in an underwater village, at the ocean-delta of the river that flows through Varanar city. Here, the nagas have built impressive structures out of the large, flat stones that litter the the depths. They have been hewn and affixed, to form everything from magnificent, unrivaled temples, to simple, functional, practical homes.

Due to its auspicious location, Kai's home-settlement is a quiet and peaceful place. Local fauna poses no threat whatsoever, and the humans that live up above have no reason to interfere with the seadwellers' affairs. As such, the champion's services are rarely called upon. For the first few decades of his life, the most interesting assignments the naga was sent on, were delivery missions to neighbouring tribes.

Then, during another dreadfully boring day, the village's elder council came up with the bright idea to initiate diplomacy with the surface-dwellers. Suddenly, Kai's life became a whole lot more interesting. He was sent to meet with various local lords. The sights, sounds, smells and tastes of the above-water world thrilled the warrior to no end. Like many others like him, he became hooked to the allures of human towns.

Since he wasn't really needed at his village, Kai began to stay out of the water for longer periods at a time, indulging in the joys of life that could not be obtained below the surface of the water. Upon returning to the village, he fabricated tales of tough negotiations, along with, of course, a reason to go back again. There was always another loose end to tie up, a lord to convince, or a diplomatic tension to ease.

But instead of discussing boring politics with ugly humans, the naga spent most of his time on the surface at brothels, bars and other places of ill repute. To pay for his extravagant surface-pleasures, he offered his services as a bouncer, a bounty-hunter and even a city guard for hire. Despite impressive work, the fishman racked up a considerable amount of debt. Usually, he'd avoid having to pay off his fees by slithering back into the water. But one morning, he woke up drunk in bed next to the local liege's daughter, with the ruler himself standing bewildered in the doorway.

And so, Kai was offered a choice. Be levied into the standing military, and join an ongoing dispute between the lord and his rival, or get thrown in prison and left to rot for a few decades, along with the wench of a noble lady he'd spent the night with. And thus, the champion became a man-at-arms, fighting for a cause which he knew nothing of, for a tribe of land-dwellers he didn't quite care for. But hey, at least it was better than wasting away in jail.

The war was brutal and well-fought on both sides. Kai excelled amongst his human cohorts, felling several dozen of infantrymen, knights and archers alike. Consistently and repeatedly, he broke through massive formations, singlehandedly beating seemingly impossible odds. In a duel with an enemy general, Kai lost one of his eyes. But then, with a single, heavy stab of his spear, the war was ended, and his service to the humans, was complete.

Returning to the village, Kai spun tales of his heroic bravery, convincing the newly-crowned chieftain that intervening in the humans' struggles was a well-planned move of great necessity. In a way, he wasn't wrong. It took almost dying to get the champion to realize how good he had it at home, with nothing to worry about, and no work to be done. Back to peace and quiet, although his soul remained in turmoil.

The naga was never quite the same ever since his forced conscription. Losing one of his eyes had made him more paranoid, always gazing around, looking for non-existant combatants trying to stab him in the back. Luckily, the local priestesses were more than willing to ease his burden of mind, offering pleasant chats, relaxing massages and shoulders to cry on. Alas, unlike the ladies of dry land, the aqua-nuns were never willing to go beyond simple pleasantries.

That is, until one day, a strong current drew in a strange, heavily diluted substance from far upstream. The nagas could not smell it, nor see it, nor could they taste it, but everyone in the village could feel a distinct, ever-present, yet exceedingly remote tingling. A tiny hint of excitement at the back of their minds, which gradually grew into arousal, as weeks turned to months. The males and females of the tribe grew closer to one another, inexplicably attracted, increasingly eager and willing to fornicate and to procreate.

Kai knew something was off, when the many priestesses he consorted with, were all of a sudden more than willing to take their platonic relationship to the next level. He wasn't one to complain, finally able to convince the few women that initially refused his advances, to spend the night at the champion's luxurious abode.

With a lot of the women of suitable age growing pregnant, even the ones that swore a vow of chastity, the population of the village was steadily expanding. What prophets and mystics decried as a curse, turned out to be a major boon for the bustling aquatic settlement. It was only when the chieftain caught his own wife in bed with the champion, that he opted to agree with the pessimists calling the heightened libido a bad thing.

And so, Kai was sent on a mission far upstream, to find the source of what ailed the village. The warrior was far less than eager to return things to how they used to be, but denying a request from the chieftain was not an option, especially not after the vile act he was caught in the middle of. Having fun with the priestesses was nice while it lasted. Sadly, all good things must come to an end.

Onyx Khan

Before the formation of kingdoms and counties, the western half of what would one day become the Dragon Empire was ruled by groups of nomadic, tribal dragons. Warlike by nature, these clans fought one another for sport and hunted whatever foreign intruders dared wander into their lands. Despite the fierce, savage inhabitants, civilization found its way to the wild plains over time. In the span of centuries, grazing fields gradually turned into sprawling cities, driven by the colonization efforts of the freshly formed eastern empire.

Their very way of life threatened, some tribes integrated into the newly formed societies, while others migrated to greener pastures. A few openly rebelled against their instated rulers, but there was little their crude weapons could do against modernized armies equipped with chainmail hauberks, nor could dried hide shields hold up against state-of-the-art steel weaponry.

The Khan clan was one of the most brutal and bloodthirty amongst the tribals. Direct descendants of the feral dragons of old, they possessed fearsome traits that the impure member of their kind could only dream of having. Imposing wings, a size and bulk dwarfing even the tallest of lesser dragons, and the ability to spew impressive gusts of scalding fire for extended durations. Suffice to say, they were wisely left to their own devices during the formation of the western dragon kingdom.

The Khans were left completely undisturbed. Despite their land being claimed by a king and a queen in a city far away, nobody dared question the tribe's absolute rule in person. Hunting and foraging the plains provided them with all they needed. Extorting a few nearby villages for luxuries allowed them to completely forego trading, a practice which had robbed the identity of many rival tribes, gradually transforming them into roaming traders. And so, throughout several generations, life went on as usual for the proud purists, completely oblivious to the changing world around them.

That is, until a particularly clever and cunning dragon by the name of Genghis became the patriarch of the Khans. Unlike his forefathers, Genghis was not so inward-focused. He was interested in things beyond the tribe's internal affairs and immediate needs. Instead of sticking to raiding the minor settlements surrounding their ever-moving warcamp, he sent out scouts to map the patterns of regional trade caravans. How frequently they passed, where and when they were last seen, and most important of all: what they were carrying.

Under Genghis' lead, the clan began to target the most valuable of trade caravans, containing exotic goods from all across the Dragon Empire. Fine silk from the east, malleable steel from the north, spices from the coast, imported barrels of booze, more food than they could eat, and plenty of livestock to butcher later. What they didn't -- or no longer -- had a use for, they discarded when migrating to new pastures. Although the tribe was swimming in luxury, their honor and pride-based society prevented them from falling into the pitfalls of overindulgence and debauchery.

The Khans thrived. They accumulated wealth beyond measure, adorning their leather tents and clothing with gold, marble, silver and ivory. But their recent exploits had came with a baggage of considerable notoriety. Merchants beseeched the ruler of the western dragon kingdom to act, to strike down the steppe-tribe so trade could once again flourish in the region! The king downplayed the issue. It was just a single band of roving thugs. How much havoc could they possibly wreak?

The monarch would soon come to regret those words. Upon plundering yet another caravan, Genghis stumbled upon a weirdly painted piece of rolled up cloth. He recognized some of the landmarks depicted. The dragon-shaped rock his ancestors worshipped, the giant, solemn cherry blossom tree which had hosted his marriage, the river that flowed throughout the lands, and the lake they were encamped next to at this very moment! Bringing the scroll to one of the few survivors of the surprise attack, the tribal leader offered the man a simple deal: "Read, and you live."

It was a map. Not a term the nomads were familiar with, but it was easy enough to explain. What was more interesting, were the contents of the map. It depicted the western dragon kingdom. And that revelation raised a lot more questions than it answered. Who were these pretenders staking claims to the land of Khans? After a lengthy clarification, the patriarch was left boiling with rage. While this emperor fellow sounded a bit too powerful to assert dominance over, the king was well within the clan's reach. It was time to show the world who really ruled these plains.

Rallying the tribe's warriors, Genghis immediately rode out towards the regional capital, using the stolen map for directions. Arriving at Salamar come nightfall, it did not take long for them to find the palace. It was a massacre. The unsuspecting guards, half of which were asleep, stood no chance against the invading group of natural born killing machines. They were effortlessly slaughtered. The proud warriors butchered their way to the royal bedrooms. Dragging the king and queen out of their bed, the two impure dragons were abused, humiliated, degraded, raped and ultimately beheaded by the nomads.

The rest of the royal watch was exterminated to the very last man. Even the ones that begged for mercy, received only death. In the end, the sole survivor of the bloody coup was princess Diamonde, the former king's only daughter. Genghis saw fit to hand her to his oldest son, Onyx, for the young warrior's courageous valor in battle. As night slowly turned to dawn, the nomads decided to take over the palace completely, some of them holding watch to make sure the stupid townsfolk wouldn't try anything hasty, while the others indulged in excessively sized beds, the royal harem, and the finely aged wine kept in the cellar.

In his drunken stupor, the brilliant Genghis had an epiphany. He had executed impure dragon nobility, reducing their bloodline to a single captive woman. Now he could ascend the throne himself, and officially take control over the steppes. But there was a problem. If this emperor of the lesser kin was as influential of a man as the tribal leader had been told, then his rule would be a short one indeed. Should tonight's events reach the emperor's court, an imperial army would no doubt be dispatched, to do unto Genghis as he had done unto the previous ruler of the western dragon kingdom.

The patriarch being crowned king was out of the question. That would arouse far too much suspicion. But there was still the girl. Diamonde. With her parents' death, she was now the rightful queen of the land. And she was, at this very moment, getting to know his son. As the bloodthirsty warlord passed out from inebriation, snoring loud enough for the entire palace to hear, a dastardly plan formed at the back of his mind.

The next day, late in the afternoon, Genghis' schemes were set into motion. A mock marriage was arranged, a local bishop pressured into wedding Onyx and Diamonde. Immediately afterwards, the tribe spread the news that the previous rulers of the land had unfortunately passed away overnight. The same cleric was made to coronate the new king. And so, the young Onyx went from being a nomadic tribe leader's eldest son, to becoming the new monarch of the western dragon kingdom.

To the imperial court, it seemed like an ordinary succession. The king and queen had died, the princess and her new lover took over. In reality, a nomadic tribe had wrestled control away from the royal family, ensuring their kind would have great influence over the kingdom's affairs for generations to come. Genghis, having masterminded the entire ordeal, was content with knowing that he had lead his people to greatness, even if he could not call himself king.

Leading was in Onyx' blood. After all, his ancestors had commanded absolute power of their tribe since time immemorial. The savage youngster saw his ascension to monarch, merely as an early coming of his rightful position as tribal leader. A few edicts were swiftly ratified. The Khans became royal bodyguards, gaining permanent residence on palace grounds. Pure dragons, from all walks of life, were granted an elevated position in society. Councilmen, mayors and other important members of the court were replaced with tribesmen, loyal only to Onyx. Ironically, the country had never been more unified.

Unlike the previous king and queen, the new monarch wasn't afraid to speak his mind at the bargaining table. When a big, strong pureblooded dragon states his demands, there are few who dare to deny him. This aggressive style of negotiation caught meeker envoys off guard. A few previously signed pacts were renegotiated, resulting in far more beneficial deals. Under the strict rule of Onyx, the western dragon kingdom flourished.

It wasn't too hard for the former nomadic warrior to grow accustomed to the civilized noble lifestyle. After all, being worshipped by impure dragons was his birthright. His new position was a powertripping fantasy come true. Sure, his new wife might not have loved him, but she understood the consequences there would be, should she ever disobey him. The sheer size difference between the two made things a little hard in the bedroom, and not in a good way. It was only after a few months of preparation and stretching exercises, that Onyx managed to make it fit.

Besides bedding Diamonde and imposing his will upon other rulers during meetings, the king was free to spend the remainder of his time with the royal court and his tribal family. He could often be found sparring with the other nomads, letting the various ladies of the court and the royal harem worship his glorious, pure body in every way they saw fit, or seeding a new generation of pureblood warriors within the wombs of the women of the tribe.

But the amazonian dragonesses weren't the only ones getting impregnated. Diamonde, too, fell prey to nomadic virility. Her once-slender belly grew, and she ultimately gave birth to a beautiful baby daughter. Not quite as pure of blood as Onyx, and as such not allowed to bear the name of Khan, the young Saphira would swiftly grow to become the king's favorite child. Diamonde's defiance waning further with every passing day, the three formed a somewhat functional noble family.

Onyx Khan

Before the formation of kingdoms and counties, the western half of what would one day become the Dragon Empire was ruled by groups of nomadic, tribal dragons. Warlike by nature, these clans fought one another for sport and hunted whatever foreign intruders dared wander into their lands. Despite the fierce, savage inhabitants, civilization found its way to the wild plains over time. In the span of centuries, grazing fields gradually turned into sprawling cities, driven by the colonization efforts of the freshly formed eastern empire.

Their very way of life threatened, some tribes integrated into the newly formed societies, while others migrated to greener pastures. A few openly rebelled against their instated rulers, but there was little their crude weapons could do against modernized armies equipped with chainmail hauberks, nor could dried hide shields hold up against state-of-the-art steel weaponry.

The Khan clan was one of the most brutal and bloodthirty amongst the tribals. Direct descendants of the feral dragons of old, they possessed fearsome traits that the impure member of their kind could only dream of having. Imposing wings, a size and bulk dwarfing even the tallest of lesser dragons, and the ability to spew impressive gusts of scalding fire for extended durations. Suffice to say, they were wisely left to their own devices during the formation of the western dragon kingdom.

The Khans were left completely undisturbed. Despite their land being claimed by a king and a queen in a city far away, nobody dared question the tribe's absolute rule in person. Hunting and foraging the plains provided them with all they needed. Extorting a few nearby villages for luxuries allowed them to completely forego trading, a practice which had robbed the identity of many rival tribes, gradually transforming them into roaming traders. And so, throughout several generations, life went on as usual for the proud purists, completely oblivious to the changing world around them.

That is, until a particularly clever and cunning dragon by the name of Genghis became the patriarch of the Khans. Unlike his forefathers, Genghis was not so inward-focused. He was interested in things beyond the tribe's internal affairs and immediate needs. Instead of sticking to raiding the minor settlements surrounding their ever-moving warcamp, he sent out scouts to map the patterns of regional trade caravans. How frequently they passed, where and when they were last seen, and most important of all: what they were carrying.

Under Genghis' lead, the clan began to target the most valuable of trade caravans, containing exotic goods from all across the Dragon Empire. Fine silk from the east, malleable steel from the north, spices from the coast, imported barrels of booze, more food than they could eat, and plenty of livestock to butcher later. What they didn't -- or no longer -- had a use for, they discarded when migrating to new pastures. Although the tribe was swimming in luxury, their honor and pride-based society prevented them from falling into the pitfalls of overindulgence and debauchery.

The Khans thrived. They accumulated wealth beyond measure, adorning their leather tents and clothing with gold, marble, silver and ivory. But their recent exploits had came with a baggage of considerable notoriety. Merchants beseeched the ruler of the western dragon kingdom to act, to strike down the steppe-tribe so trade could once again flourish in the region! The king downplayed the issue. It was just a single band of roving thugs. How much havoc could they possibly wreak?

The monarch would soon come to regret those words. Upon plundering yet another caravan, Genghis stumbled upon a weirdly painted piece of rolled up cloth. He recognized some of the landmarks depicted. The dragon-shaped rock his ancestors worshipped, the giant, solemn cherry blossom tree which had hosted his marriage, the river that flowed throughout the lands, and the lake they were encamped next to at this very moment! Bringing the scroll to one of the few survivors of the surprise attack, the tribal leader offered the man a simple deal: "Read, and you live."

It was a map. Not a term the nomads were familiar with, but it was easy enough to explain. What was more interesting, were the contents of the map. It depicted the western dragon kingdom. And that revelation raised a lot more questions than it answered. Who were these pretenders staking claims to the land of Khans? After a lengthy clarification, the patriarch was left boiling with rage. While this emperor fellow sounded a bit too powerful to assert dominance over, the king was well within the clan's reach. It was time to show the world who really ruled these plains.

Rallying the tribe's warriors, Genghis immediately rode out towards the regional capital, using the stolen map for directions. Arriving at Salamar come nightfall, it did not take long for them to find the palace. It was a massacre. The unsuspecting guards, half of which were asleep, stood no chance against the invading group of natural born killing machines. They were effortlessly slaughtered. The proud warriors butchered their way to the royal bedrooms. Dragging the king and queen out of their bed, the two impure dragons were abused, humiliated, degraded and ultimately beheaded by the nomads.

The rest of the royal watch was exterminated to the very last man. Even the ones that begged for mercy, received only death. In the end, the sole survivor of the bloody coup was princess Diamonde, the former king's only daughter. Genghis saw fit to hand her to his oldest son, Onyx, for the young warrior's courageous valor in battle. As night slowly turned to dawn, the nomads decided to take over the palace completely, some of them holding watch to make sure the stupid townsfolk wouldn't try anything hasty, while the others indulged in excessively sized beds, the royal harem, and the finely aged wine kept in the cellar.

In his drunken stupor, the brilliant Genghis had an epiphany. He had executed impure dragon nobility, reducing their bloodline to a single captive woman. Now he could ascend the throne himself, and officially take control over the steppes. But there was a problem. If this emperor of the lesser kin was as influential of a man as the tribal leader had been told, then his rule would be a short one indeed. Should tonight's events reach the emperor's court, an imperial army would no doubt be dispatched, to do unto Genghis as he had done unto the previous ruler of the western dragon kingdom.

The patriarch being crowned king was out of the question. That would arouse far too much suspicion. But there was still the girl. Diamonde. With her parents' death, she was now the rightful queen of the land. And she was, at this very moment, getting to know his son. As the bloodthirsty warlord passed out from inebriation, snoring loud enough for the entire palace to hear, a dastardly plan formed at the back of his mind.

The next day, late in the afternoon, Genghis' schemes were set into motion. A mock marriage was arranged, a local bishop pressured into wedding Onyx and Diamonde. Immediately afterwards, the tribe spread the news that the previous rulers of the land had unfortunately passed away overnight. The same cleric was made to coronate the new king. And so, the young Onyx went from being a nomadic tribe leader's eldest son, to becoming the new monarch of the western dragon kingdom.

To the imperial court, it seemed like an ordinary succession. The king and queen had died, the princess and her new lover took over. In reality, a nomadic tribe had wrestled control away from the royal family, ensuring their kind would have great influence over the kingdom's affairs for generations to come. Genghis, having masterminded the entire ordeal, was content with knowing that he had lead his people to greatness, even if he could not call himself king.

Leading was in Onyx' blood. After all, his ancestors had commanded absolute power of their tribe since time immemorial. The savage youngster saw his ascension to monarch, merely as an early coming of his rightful position as tribal leader. A few edicts were swiftly ratified. The Khans became royal bodyguards, gaining permanent residence on palace grounds. Pure dragons, from all walks of life, were granted an elevated position in society. Councilmen, mayors and other important members of the court were replaced with tribesmen, loyal only to Onyx. Ironically, the country had never been more unified.

Unlike the previous king and queen, the new monarch wasn't afraid to speak his mind at the bargaining table. When a big, strong pureblooded dragon states his demands, there are few who dare to deny him. This aggressive style of negotiation caught meeker envoys off guard. A few previously signed pacts were renegotiated, resulting in far more beneficial deals. Under the strict rule of Onyx, the western dragon kingdom flourished.

It wasn't too hard for the former nomadic warrior to grow accustomed to the civilized noble lifestyle. After all, being worshipped by impure dragons was his birthright. His new position was a powertripping fantasy come true. Sure, his new wife might not have loved him, but she understood the consequences there would be, should she ever disobey him. The sheer size difference between the two made things a little hard in the bedroom, and not in a good way.

Besides bedding Diamonde and imposing his will upon other rulers during meetings, the king was free to spend the remainder of his time with the royal court and his tribal family. He could often be found sparring with the other nomads, letting the various ladies of the court and the royal harem worship his glorious, pure body in every way they saw fit, or seeding a new generation of pureblood warriors within the wombs of the women of the tribe.

But the amazonian dragonesses weren't the only ones getting impregnated. Diamonde, too, fell prey to nomadic virility. Her once-slender belly grew, and she ultimately gave birth to a beautiful baby daughter. Not quite as pure of blood as Onyx, and as such not allowed to bear the name of Khan, the young Saphira would swiftly grow to become the king's favorite child. Diamonde's defiance waning further with every passing day, the three formed a somewhat functional noble family.

Orange

When the most powerful person in the entire world, the Dragon Emperor, was struck down by a mere courtesan, the booming prostitution business in the eastern Dragon Empire changed forever. Suspicion and mistrust drove the wealthiest of clientele away from even the most trustworthy high-class harems. Well-paid whores were now seen as assassins in disguise, waiting for an opportune moment to strike.

With profits dwindling, brothel owners pursued new avenues of income. Some began to offer maid services with benefits, other brothels were converted into inns selling nightly company at a reasonable rate. The entrepreneurs running a few of the more illustrious houses of ill repute, however, saw value in the veil of stereotypes. In secret, they began to train their geishas and oirans to be spies and murderers. In shady backrooms, pricey deals were negotiated, sealing the fates of many unsuspecting victims.

This marked the start of a vicious downwards spiral. The more dead bodies turned up, the less people were interested in the traditional services of naive prostitutes. With fewer clients, more brothels turned to assassination to make ends meet. The misconception that every adult entertainer was a secret agent slowly became a reality. High-class prostitution became a corrupt political tool, rife with backhanded double-crossing and massively bloated bounties on the heads of the most influential figures across the land.

Meanwhile, a new class of prostitutes were on the rise. Lowborn whores were more wanted than ever, by nobility and commoners alike. Due to their disposable and volatile nature, it was highly unlikely that someone would spend the time and effort needed to train a measly serf to become an assassin. And if a slave was given the tools to fight, they would not be a slave for much longer. This all but assured that the more affordable option, was also the safer bet when it came to seeking pleasure in the Dragon Empire.

Due to popular demand, the highest echelons of adult entertainment were gradually phased out in favor of working-class maidens. A wedge was driven between the existing brothels. Some turned into full-blown assassin dens, while others acquired a range of new working girls to cater to their audience's changing tastes. Slave owners, always looking for new ways to profit off of the suffering of their thralls, wanted a piece of the growing pie. They began to rent out their slaves on a day-to-day basis, forcing them to cater to the most wicked and debased whims of the dragons wealthy enough to afford their services.

And that brings us to Xineki, as her parents named her. The kobold daughter of a pair of sex slaves, she was swiftly nicknamed Lily by their elderly owner. The master did not fancy his nicknames going unused, so her real name was all-too-soon lost to time. Born into slavery on the eastern coast of the draconic realm, Lily was never destined to live an easy life. When she was young, her daily routine consisted mostly of intensive manual labor in return for meagre scraps of food. In the evening, her parents were sent off to ply the more adult trades that she was kept sheltered from, for now. They often did not return until morningtime, leaving their child to suffer many lonely nights in the slave pens, with little protection from the maddening whispers of the other desperate serfs.

On the very night he had planned to introduce Lily to the same prostitution business her parents had been serving in for years, the master's ancient, sultry mind suddenly spewed out a bright idea. Earlier that day, he had been approached by a shady fellow looking for a slave trained to kill. But, as he explained to the veiled man, teaching a serf how to wield a blade is a good way to get yourself stabbed. Most slaves had nothing to lose. They would fight to the death for even the slightest chance of attaining freedom. But, or so the old man realized rather late, Lily's case was special. She did have something to lose. Her parents.

During another lonely night, a cart stopped outside of the kobold's slave pen. Her cage was unlocked, and she was torn from her relatively safe confines. Still half asleep, the young slave was thrown into the back of the carriage, and away they rode. Her mind was racing. What was happening?! Had she been sold? Were her parents coming, too? They weren't in the cart. They were coming, right?!

None of these questions would get answered until the break of dawn. The carriage arrived at the next village over. There, her master was already waiting. He explained in small, simple words, that the tiny lizard had been chosen. Instead of becoming a common whore like her mother, she would be trained in the arts of espionage and assassination.

He wanted to shape her into a murderer, mould her into becoming his own personal killer. If she refused, or if she ended up harming him or her handlers in any capacity, then she would never get to see her parents again, and he would ensure they die a horrible, painful death. But if she did as she was told, then she'd be fed, clothed and taught things her parents would never be able to show her.

Lily was left with little choice but to accept. It was on those one-sided terms, that her training begun. To start with, she was given some actual food, instead of the disgusting slop she'd been eating all of her life. Mid-feast, she was taught her first valuable lesson: never to let her guard down. A spilled bowl of rice, and a painful beatdown later, the first day of training ended with her getting knocked out.

The cramped hut the kobold woke up in, was quite the improvement compared to the cage she lived in before. Still, the hard wooden floor wasn't nearly as warm as her parents' loving embrace. The guards posted outside meant escaping was out of the question. For now, at least.

The coming week, a lot of gold was spent to facilitate the little lizard's training. A smuggler taught her how to hide objects of all sizes on and in her body. One of the most famed prostitutes in the entire region introduced her to the fine art of seduction, showed her how to best please a man to lull him into a false sense of security, and taught her a newly invented paralyzing grip. A thief instructed her on the basics of lockpicking and pickpocketing. An acrobat of a travelling circus explained how to climb a rope, and how to best stay out of sight. And a former assassin explained where to sink blades to ensure a swift kill.

After the first seven days, Lily already felt like she was ready for action. But her training had only just began. Her owner had planned for an entire year of rigorous workouts and trial assignments, before she would finally be sent on her first real mission. Alas, it was not meant to be. On the morning of the eighth day of the kobold's coaching, her master failed to show up. The old man later turned up dead under mysterious circumstances.

The report left Lily with a creeping uncertainty at the back of her mind. Part of her was glad that the old bastard was gone. But what would happen to her, now that the person orchestrating her elaborate education was dead? Heck, what would happen to her parents, without their owner?!

Some answers were provided not too long after the news hit, when the same carriage that had brought Lily to the village dropped off a hideous, bloated crossbreed of a man at her hut. The master's son, a slothful lout that hadn't worked a day in his life. With his father's death, it had fallen to him to clean the old man's affairs. And that had led him straight to Lily.

The kobold tried to explain why she wasn't in the pens with the other slaves. That she had been chosen, and was in the middle of intensive training to become an assassin! The wealthy idiot didn't care one bit. He shoved his filthy fingers inside of her muzzle to check out her teeth, before forcefully inspecting the tightness of her loins. While she was still begging for any news regarding her parents, he ordered the guards to take her west and have her sold.

And so, Lily found herself locked away in a caravan headed for the other side of the world. Out of everything she'd learned thus far, there wasn't a single trick that could help her escape the tight, iron cuffs binding her wrists. At that time, she still held some hope that maybe this was all an elaborate training exercise. But when the convoy of slaves and trade goods passed into an unfamiliar mountainous region, reality began to set in, and along with it came blind panic.

Twice, the kobold tried to make a break for freedom, attempting to outrun the guards; but both times ended in a worse beatdown than the first day of her training. Bloodied and bruised, she went for a few more subtle ways of escaping. At night, she tried but failed to pick the lock to her prison-cart. The next day, seducing a guard left her with all of the shame and none of the gain of being a common whore. Trying to sneak away almost had her bitten by a patrolling wolfhound. And she clearly wasn't talking her way to freedom, not after her previous escape plans.

It seems that her former master was right. She wasn't ready for a real mission yet. But, despite the last few remnants of fleeting hope clinging to the stubborn belief that this might all just be a test, the caravan steadily travelled further and further away from the eastern coast. Eventually, the convoy left dragon territory, crossing into human lands. There, at the sprawling city of Varanar, it finally came to a halt.

At a crude public auction, in which the humans were all-too-eager to get their hands on the merchandise, Lily was sold to a bald-headed man opening up a massage parlor. And, like her previous owner, he did not appreciate her eastern heritage. This time, she was dubbed Orange. Far easier to remember. A slave didn't deserve a real name anyway.

The next few weeks were a blur. The would-be assassin was humiliated, degraded and defiled in every way possible by her new master. Kept in a shady backroom, she desperately tried to convince him of her value as a thief, or an assassin. But every time she brought up her training, he whipped her for lying. No one would be dumb enough to teach a slave how to kill.

Eventually, Orange stopped trying. Completely broken, she grew meek and compliant. Following her new owner's orders, the kobold assumed the role of a mere masseuse, soothingly running her tiny hands over the bare bodies of whatever unwashed patrons walked through the door. In the end, her skills would be used to lure in and trap others of her kind, reeling them in to the same hell that she herself was subjected to.

Instead of an assassin, she had become a slaver's best tool. And all this while half the world away from her loving family back home. A failure every step of the way, Lily finds herself at her very limit by the time Moe comes to pay a visit to the massage parlor. Will she survive their encounter, or will she finally snap and give in to the dark thoughts brewing at the back of her mind? Perhaps not everyone can be saved. Or maybe she'll fail, even at stringing the knot to hang herself with.

Orange

When the most powerful person in the entire world, the Dragon Emperor, was struck down by a mere courtesan, the booming prostitution business in the eastern Dragon Empire changed forever. Suspicion and mistrust drove the wealthiest of clientele away from even the most trustworthy high-class harems. Well-paid whores were now seen as assassins in disguise, waiting for an opportune moment to strike.

With profits dwindling, brothel owners pursued new avenues of income. Some began to offer maid services with benefits, other brothels were converted into inns selling nightly company at a reasonable rate. The entrepreneurs running a few of the more illustrious houses of ill repute, however, saw value in the veil of stereotypes. In secret, they began to train their geishas and oirans to be spies and murderers. In shady backrooms, pricey deals were negotiated, sealing the fates of many unsuspecting victims.

This marked the start of a vicious downwards spiral. The more dead bodies turned up, the less people were interested in the traditional services of naive prostitutes. With fewer clients, more brothels turned to assassination to make ends meet. The misconception that every adult entertainer was a secret agent slowly became a reality. High-class prostitution became a corrupt political tool, rife with backhanded double-crossing and massively bloated bounties on the heads of the most influential figures across the land.

Meanwhile, a new class of prostitutes were on the rise. Lowborn whores were more wanted than ever, by nobility and commoners alike. Due to their disposable and volatile nature, it was highly unlikely that someone would spend the time and effort needed to train a measly serf to become an assassin. And if a slave was given the tools to fight, they would not be a slave for much longer. This all but assured that the more affordable option, was also the safer bet when it came to seeking pleasure in the Dragon Empire.

Due to popular demand, the highest echelons of adult entertainment were gradually phased out in favor of working-class maidens. A wedge was driven between the existing brothels. Some turned into full-blown assassin dens, while others acquired a range of new working girls to cater to their audience's changing tastes. Slave owners, always looking for new ways to profit off of the suffering of their thralls, wanted a piece of the growing pie. They began to rent out their slaves on a day-to-day basis, forcing them to cater to the most wicked and debased whims of the dragons wealthy enough to afford their services.

And that brings us to Xineki, as her parents named her. The kobold daughter of a pair of sex slaves, she was swiftly nicknamed Lily by their elderly owner. The master did not fancy his nicknames going unused, so her real name was all-too-soon lost to time. Born into slavery on the eastern coast of the draconic realm, Lily was never destined to live an easy life. When she was young, her daily routine consisted mostly of intensive manual labor in return for meagre scraps of food. In the evening, her parents were sent off to ply the more adult trades that she was kept sheltered from, for now. They often did not return until morningtime, leaving their child to suffer many lonely nights in the slave pens, with little protection from the maddening whispers of the other desperate serfs.

On the very night he had planned to introduce Lily to the same prostitution business her parents had been serving in for years, the master's ancient, sultry mind suddenly spewed out a bright idea. Earlier that day, he had been approached by a shady fellow looking for a slave trained to kill. But, as he explained to the veiled man, teaching a serf how to wield a blade is a good way to get yourself stabbed. Most slaves had nothing to lose. They would fight to the death for even the slightest chance of attaining freedom. But, or so the old man realized rather late, Lily's case was special. She did have something to lose. Her parents.

During another lonely night, a cart stopped outside of the kobold's slave pen. Her cage was unlocked, and she was torn from her relatively safe confines. Still half asleep, the young slave was thrown into the back of the carriage, and away they rode. Her mind was racing. What was happening?! Had she been sold? Were her parents coming, too? They weren't in the cart. They were coming, right?!

None of these questions would get answered until the break of dawn. The carriage arrived at the next village over. There, her master was already waiting. He explained in small, simple words, that the tiny lizard had been chosen. Instead of becoming a common whore like her mother, she would be trained in the arts of espionage and assassination.

He wanted to shape her into a murderer, mould her into becoming his own personal killer. If she refused, or if she ended up harming him or her handlers in any capacity, then she would never get to see her parents again, and he would ensure they die a horrible, painful death. But if she did as she was told, then she'd be fed, clothed and taught things her parents would never be able to show her.

Lily was left with little choice but to accept. It was on those one-sided terms, that her training begun. To start with, she was given some actual food, instead of the disgusting slop she'd been eating all of her life. Mid-feast, she was taught her first valuable lesson: never to let her guard down. A spilled bowl of rice, and a painful beatdown later, the first day of training ended with her getting knocked out.

The cramped hut the kobold woke up in, was quite the improvement compared to the cage she lived in before. Still, the hard wooden floor wasn't nearly as warm as her parents' loving embrace. The guards posted outside meant escaping was out of the question. For now, at least.

The coming week, a lot of gold was spent to facilitate the little lizard's training. A smuggler taught her how to hide objects of all sizes on and in her body. One of the most famed prostitutes in the entire region introduced her to the fine art of seduction, showed her how to best please a man to lull him into a false sense of security, and taught her a newly invented paralyzing grip. A thief instructed her on the basics of lockpicking and pickpocketing. An acrobat of a travelling circus explained how to climb a rope, and how to best stay out of sight. And a former assassin explained where to sink blades to ensure a swift kill.

After the first seven days, Lily already felt like she was ready for action. But her training had only just began. Her owner had planned for an entire year of rigorous workouts and trial assignments, before she would finally be sent on her first real mission. Alas, it was not meant to be. On the morning of the eighth day of the kobold's coaching, her master failed to show up. The old man later turned up dead under mysterious circumstances.

The report left Lily with a creeping uncertainty at the back of her mind. Part of her was glad that the old bastard was gone. But what would happen to her, now that the person orchestrating her elaborate education was dead? Heck, what would happen to her parents, without their owner?!

Some answers were provided not too long after the news hit, when the same carriage that had brought Lily to the village dropped off a hideous, bloated crossbreed of a man at her hut. The master's son, a slothful lout that hadn't worked a day in his life. With his father's death, it had fallen to him to clean the old man's affairs. And that had led him straight to Lily.

The rest of this story is decisively not safe for work. If you want to see how Lily ended up being called Orange, you'll have to switch to the NSFW version using the button up above.

Three-Tail

Part one: Freaks

Three-Tail the rat, nowadays better known as the Three-Tailed Rat, is the leader of the largest somewhat-organized crime ring in all of Varanar, comprised entirely of kobolds. Unimaginatively called the Three-Tailed Rat Clan, they run large-scale thieving and pickpocketing operations, as well as an extensive extortion racket, spreading far beyond the confines of the city walls.

How did a poor rodent boy rise to become one of the most influential figures in the capital of humans? It all started when he was little. Three-Tail was born into a large family of genetically-defunct rats. Aeons of inbreeding had culminated in his generation, leading to wild mutations of an unpredictable nature. As his many siblings, such as One-Eye, Four-Ears, No-Groin and Six-Toes could attest to, none were winners of the gene-pool lottery. Some of them had brain issues, others were constantly wracked with disease, several were unable to speak, and a few were completely deaf. A miserable lot, but their blood-related parents loved them all the same.

Fully functional, apart from the trait that earned him his name, Three-Tail got the better end of things. From an early age onwards, he showed a cunning and intellect superior to that of his siblings. He taught his less-gifted brothers and sisters how to play cards, just so he could scam them out of what little possessions they had, by bending the rules when push came to shove. While by no means a blue-blooded dragon, he was one of the few rats in his litter that looked like he might have had what it took to make something of his life, some day.

Being dirt-poor, the family lived in a small shack, in the sprawling slums known as Varanar's kobold district. In their home, there was barely enough room for everyone to rest their heads at night. Sleeping spots on the sparse few dirty, old mattresses they'd scrounged from the trash, were valuable commodities. Lacking the money to buy food for everyone, the kids were sent out from a very young age onwards, to collect and gather whatever they could. For themselves, and for the others. The mammals fit right in with the scaly vermin.

Three-Tail's siblings took to begging, robbing, mooching and panhandling for anything they could take home. The rat himself dabbled in a bit of double-dealing, using his card-trickery to scam tourists out of a few measly coins, never enough to draw the attention of the guards. But the meagre few pieces of gold weren't nearly enough to feed the rest of the family. His less-abled brothers and sisters were dropping like flies. Killed in brawls, arrested by the guards, falling prey to malnourishment, they died in many different ways. Only the strong survived. Natural selection in action.

Part two: Law and order

Less mouths to feed, but also fewer hands to bring home a daily living. After several months of half-legal activity, Three-Tail finally found his true calling. Winning a lockpick in a street-side bet, the rat had a go at burglary. He was a natural at it. Opening the lock took mere seconds, instead of the minutes it took his clumsy siblings. Once inside, he grabbed the most valuable thing he found, and got the hell out. One piece of expensive jewelry was enough to sustain the family for weeks. The rat was hooked.

For a couple of years, Three-Tail's new job kept everyone nice and fed. At first, his siblings were content with no longer being at constant risk of starvation. Over time, however, some of his brothers and sisters grew envy towards the skillful thief. They wanted to be their parents' favorites, or at least prove that they, too, could provide for themselves. Trying to out-do Three-tail, their actions grew ever-more bold and brash and brazen.

As subtlety gave way to competitiveness, more and more ire was drawn to the family of rats. The guards took note. Especially their freshly appointed captain, wanted to put an end to the wave of crime that had washed over the city, as a direct result of a single, rowdy family of rodents. But deploying to the kobold district in full force, was not a decision made lightly. They needed a reason. A cause, more than some loose leads all pointing towards one group of rats.

And this reason was soon provided. One of Three-Tail's brothers got into a fight. Robbery gone bad. A broken bottle was involved. A wealthy human was killed. The guards had their excuse.

An armed detachment strode through the kobold district, stopping right at the doorstep of the family of rats that had terrorized the town for years on end. No more. Armor-clad guards kicked in the door, stormed the small shack en masse. The only ones home were the two oldest of the rodents, their mother and father. The rest were out, doing their daily business. Some of the men wanted to kill the vermin where they stood. The captain insisted they be taken back to the keep, for questioning.

Part three: Lawful murder

Their raided home was turned into a guard-outpost. A sanctuary for men of the law, in the middle of a lawless part of town. A forward base, from which the guards could launch operations into the very heart of the kobold district. With nowhere to return to, the young rats spread throughout the city, unsure of the fate of neither their siblings, nor their parents. They slept on the streets. Before that fateful day, they were trying to prove that they could provide for themselves. Well, now it was time to do or die.

The mother and father of the family were thoroughly interrogated. Torture was not out of the question. They were violated and probed every which-way, but despite everything the lawmen put them through, neither of the rats would squeak. Truth was, they simply didn't know where their murderous child was. But that was not a fact the guards were willing to accept.

The captive rats were dubbed worthless. In broad daylight, they were escorted to the city's largest marketplace. An audience formed, as a pair of crude gallows were erected. Three-Tail, disguised and in hiding, was amongst the crowd. He watched, frozen in place, as a noose was put around his mother's neck. Her eyes locked with his, right before the rope was pulled tight. Her husband struggled against the men that held him, breaking out into tears as life slowly drained from the woman he loved the most. What was even worse, was knowing that he was next.

The people cheered, as the lifeless corpses of the two criminals were lowered back onto the wooden stage. Weeping profusely, their son fled the scene. The next few days, he spent wandering around aimlessly. While still in touch with some of his siblings, life without parents felt empty, and devoid of purpose. His entire existence, up until then, had revolved around providing for the family. With the rodents scattered, and dispersed, he had nothing left to try his hardest for. In all those years of thieving, he had never learned to look out for himself, first and foremost.

Part four: The streets of Varanar

A lesson that Three-Tail would soon be forced to learn. Life on the streets of the kobold district was not easy. Various groups and gangs, more violent than not, ruled the slums. While physically stronger than a single kobold, they never came alone. It was always best to keep a few coins on hand, to pay them off and avoid a beating. They were doing what they had to, in order to survive. A motivation that the rodent himself knew all too well.

A break-in here and there kept Three-Tail fed, and clothed. Most of the money he earned by pawning off valuables, he immediately spent. Carrying too much gold in the slums was a death sentence. A lot of the kobold bandits had no qualms with shanking unruly victims. Even with their new foothold secured, the law had no say here. And without his brothers to back him up, taking a stand against petty criminals was akin to suicide.

Life, however meaningless, continued. The depressed rat went on a spree of burglaries, secretly hoping he'd get caught, and face the same fate his parents did. But was never heard, never seen, and never busted. Three-Tail was too good at what he did. Years of breaking into places out of sheer necessity, had rendered him an expert thief. And turning himself in, would make a mockery out of his parents' sacrifice. They died, not to protect his murderous brother, but to protect all of the rodent siblings. And he would not let their deaths go in vain.

One late night, while prowling through the merchant quarter, looking for a decent place to rob, the rodent suddenly stumbled upon a group of kobolds, huddled up around the front door of a liquor shop. Stocking spirits and drinks from all over the world, the small lizards were undoubtedly looking to score some free booze, in a way that the rat was all too familiar with. However, the lock on this place in particular, was much more intricate than an ordinary padlock. As such, the gang was unable to pick it properly, and without getting through the door, they had no chance of scoring the drinks they so desired.

Part five: The start of something good

Stealthily, Three-Tail approached the group from behind. Once close enough to appear friendly, yet still out of arm's reach of the potentially dangerous kobolds, the rodent announced his presence. They almost bolted at the sound of his voice, but some quick reassurances that they had nothing to fear, combined with a few non-threatening arm gestures, brought the tiny thieves to a precarious stand-still. They observed, as the rat whipped out his own trusty lockpick, the very same one he had won, all those years ago. He approached the door, and in a matter of seconds, managed to do what the entire group could not: unlock it.

The kobolds stormed in. They plundered, looted, and drank to their heart's content. To Three-Tail, it almost felt like having his siblings around again. Almost. After taking as much booze as they could possibly carry, the group of lizards drunkenly stumbled away into the night. And so, too, did the rodent vanish back into the slums. For the first time since his parents were executed publicly, a smile had formed on his face. He was content, knowing he'd helped make the lives of those little ruffians just a little less agonizing. Once again, the kobold district felt like home.

A few days later, the very same group he'd helped that one fateful night, tracked Three-Tail down. They wanted to know how he did it. How he managed to crack open the lock that had them stumped for over half an hour. A mutually beneficial deal was negotiated. The rodent would teach them how to pick all kinds of locks, and plan robberies out, to prevent them from getting caught. In return, the kobolds would hand over a portion of their loot. Everybody wins.

The training was effective. Within weeks, the small group of kobolds went from being an incompetent band of nobodies, to pulling off one successful heist after the other, all orchestrated by Three-Tail, of course. Their notoriety within the criminal underworld was rapidly rising. As victories mounted, a familiar, familial feeling arose within rat. But things were different, this time. Instead of being the one doing the breaking and entering, he sat back and reaped the spoils of his ceaseless planning. He was the patron, and these lizards, these thieves were his children. His trainees. His friends. His family. His gang.

Part six: The rat's nest

The kobolds, too, were pleased with the results of their cooperation. Their new mammalian friend wasn't strict. He didn't demand a lot, nor did he even bother to check whether or not they were giving him a fair cut of the loot. All he asked for, was a few small trinkets for every venture they went on. A tithe. A small price to pay, for his invaluable services.

Envious of the thieves' success, other gangs flocked to the rat. They, too, wanted to be trained and guided. The family grew. But the newcomers did not know their father as Three-Tail. No, they referred to him, the same way everyone else in the kobold district did. The Three-Tailed Rat. That was how he was addressed. A legend was born.

Small tithes added up. Three-Tail was getting richer with every passing day. He could have easily bought a house in a decent part of town, and with a few years of criminal activity more, he could have retired and lived in wealth for the rest of his life. But no. Escaping the kobold district was never on his mind. Instead, the rodent used his growing wealth to purchase the remains of the ancient, half-sunken coliseum. A remnant of older times. The largest landmark in the slums. His new base of operations.

His group needed a name. Something that would inspire fear and awe in those who heard it. At first, Three-Tail opted for a word in the language of rat-men, to honor his parents, and to remember his rodent roots. His dumb kobold compatriots, however, could barely pronounce the simple phrase, let alone memorize it. Reluctantly, the rat gave in to his underlings' stupidity. Henceforth, the group would be known as the Three-Tailed Rat Clan, which was what everyone was already calling them anyway.

Part seven: Appearance matters

With a change of location, came a change of clothing. No longer directly involved with any break-ins himself, the rat could ditch his simple, dirty linen robe. It was good for sneaking around in, but it didn't command any kind of authority at all. He figured that, if he looked a bit more like the criminals and thugs that he dealt with on a daily basis, perhaps they would come to respect him a bit more. Not that the kobolds valued clothing much. Many of his underlings were perpetually naked. But as their leader, he held himself to a higher standard.

What was little more than a torn sack, was replaced by a far more intimidating garb, tailor-made by the finest craftsmen the city had to offer. Armored leggings, with internal pocket-holes to keep his lockpick and a deck of cards. A mostly exposed chest, traditional for rat-men warriors, with various vials, filled with poison, attached to the straps crossing his torso. A hood, with an assorted mask, which allowed him to blend into a crowd, provided he kept his three tails down. And finally, to finish the look, a large, serrated blade. Sharp. Lethal. Imposing.

Make no mistake. Three-Tail had no intentions whatsoever, of using either the poison, or the knife. They were merely there to make him look like he could assassinate the king and get away with it. While he was probably strong enough overpower an unruly kobold or two, the rat didn't actually know how to fight. Underneath the warlord-drab, he was still the same old thief he always was, more prone to running, than to actually use the fancy tools he showcased to keep his subjects in line. The mask he wore, was really just that. A mask. A way to hide his weakness. To conceal his fear, in the face of danger. It worked.

Part eight: Expansion

A lot of the scattered gangs that made up the extensive criminal side of the kobold district, ended up joining the Clan. Not all of them were thieves, however. Some were common thugs, who used numbers and makeshift weapons to squeeze money out of businesses and passers-by alike. The same kind of people who used to hound Three-Tail, were now working for him. He saw them as a necessary evil. A breed that would always exist. At least now, he could put them on a leash, and somewhat limit the harm they did.

With his tendrils reaching beyond the city limits, the rat found various different uses for the toughest of the lot. He put them to work as security, for his many growing ventures, ranging from legitimate work places for kobolds, to shady drug dens where the latest exotic imports were offered. Others served as bouncers in taverns and inns, who paid protection money, and offered free services in return. A few were employed as debt collectors, hunting down those who couldn't or wouldn't pay their dues. The cellars underneath the coliseum held plenty of room for them.

As the Clan grew, so too did their activities broaden. Slave trade, blackmailing officials, smuggling people, prostitution and even assassination, became minor notes in the laundry list of illicit activities Three-Tail was involved in. From his seat in the imperial lodge of the ruined coliseum, where thousands of years ago, emperors sat, he ruled his under-empire of thieves and murderers. But the gang was drawing the ire of the higher ranks of society. History was bound to repeat itself once more.

The captain of the guard, who had ensured the premature end of Three-Tail's previous family, had grown to become the baron of Varanar. He would not tolerate organized crime in his city. At least not without him being in control. But taking action against the Three-Tailed Rat Clan proved hard. The rat's kobolds had dirt on just about every city official there was. Coercing or bribing them to veto any move against the Clan, was an easy matter.

Part nine: The rat in the iron mask

But the baron was never one to do things by the book. If he couldn't go after the rat legally, then he would so without the council's blessing. An ambush was set up. During his daily walk through the kobold district, Three-Tail was kidnapped by a group of armed men. Guards in disguise. They took the rat to his old house, where he had a face-to-face with the ruler of the land.

Three-Tail refused to cooperate. He recognized the face of the baron. Saw the human when he was still the captain of the guard, standing on stage, during the execution of his parents. Not in a million years, would the rodent betray their legacy, by working together with the man who killed them.

The rat declining his generous offer, was unfortunate. While it put a wrench in the baron's plans, his schemes were not foiled entirely. He simply had to improvise. What became of Three-Tail, in the end? No one knows. Some say he still rules the Clan, to this very day. Anyone who dares to claim the opposite, is quickly silenced.

Three-Tail

Part one: Freaks

Three-Tail the rat, nowadays better known as the Three-Tailed Rat, is the leader of the largest somewhat-organized crime ring in all of Varanar, comprised entirely of kobolds. Unimaginatively called the Three-Tailed Rat Clan, they run large-scale thieving and pickpocketing operations, as well as an extensive extortion racket, spreading far beyond the confines of the city walls.

How did a poor rodent boy rise to become one of the most influential figures in the capital of humans? It all started when he was little. Three-Tail was born into a large family of genetically-defunct rats. Aeons of inbreeding had culminated in his generation, leading to wild mutations of an unpredictable nature. As his many siblings, such as One-Eye, Four-Ears, No-Groin and Six-Toes could attest to, none were winners of the gene-pool lottery. Some of them had brain issues, others were constantly wracked with disease, several were unable to speak, and a few were completely deaf. A miserable lot, but their parents loved them all the same.

Fully functional, apart from the trait that earned him his name, Three-Tail got the better end of things. From an early age onwards, he showed a cunning and intellect superior to that of his siblings. He taught his less-gifted brothers and sisters how to play cards, just so he could scam them out of what little possessions they had, by bending the rules when push came to shove. While by no means a blue-blooded dragon, he was one of the few rats in his litter that looked like he might have had what it took to make something of his life, some day.

Being dirt-poor, the family lived in a small shack, in the sprawling slums known as Varanar's kobold district. In their home, there was barely enough room for everyone to rest their heads at night. Sleeping spots on the sparse few dirty, old mattresses they'd scrounged from the trash, were valuable commodities. Lacking the money to buy food for everyone, the kids were sent out from a very young age onwards, to collect and gather whatever they could. For themselves, and for the others. The mammals fit right in with the scaly vermin.

Three-Tail's siblings took to begging, robbing, mooching and panhandling for anything they could take home. The rat himself dabbled in a bit of double-dealing, using his card-trickery to scam tourists out of a few measly coins, never enough to draw the attention of the guards. But the meagre few pieces of gold weren't nearly enough to feed the rest of the family. His less-abled brothers and sisters were dropping like flies. Killed in brawls, arrested by the guards, falling prey to malnourishment, they died in many different ways. Only the strong survived. Natural selection in action.

Part two: Law and order

Less mouths to feed, but also fewer hands to bring home a daily living. After several months of half-legal activity, Three-Tail finally found his true calling. Winning a lockpick in a street-side bet, the rat had a go at burglary. He was a natural at it. Opening the lock took mere seconds, instead of the minutes it took his clumsy siblings. Once inside, he grabbed the most valuable thing he found, and got the hell out. One piece of expensive jewelry was enough to sustain the family for weeks. The rat was hooked.

For a couple of years, Three-Tail's new job kept everyone nice and fed. At first, his siblings were content with no longer being at constant risk of starvation. Over time, however, some of his brothers and sisters grew envy towards the skillful thief. They wanted to be their parents' favorites, or at least prove that they, too, could provide for themselves. Trying to out-do Three-tail, their actions grew ever-more bold and brash and brazen.

As subtlety gave way to competitiveness, more and more ire was drawn to the family of rats. The guards took note. Especially their freshly appointed captain, wanted to put an end to the wave of crime that had washed over the city, as a direct result of a single, rowdy family of rodents. But deploying to the kobold district in full force, was not a decision made lightly. They needed a reason. A cause, more than some loose leads all pointing towards one group of rats.

And this reason was soon provided. One of Three-Tail's brothers got into a fight. Robbery gone bad. A broken bottle was involved. A wealthy human was killed. The guards had their excuse.

An armed detachment strode through the kobold district, stopping right at the doorstep of the family of rats that had terrorized the town for years on end. No more. Armor-clad guards kicked in the door, stormed the small shack en masse. The only ones home were the two oldest of the rodents, their mother and father. The rest were out, doing their daily business. Some of the men wanted to kill the vermin where they stood. The captain insisted they be taken back to the keep, for questioning.

Part three: Lawful murder

Their raided home was turned into a guard-outpost. A sanctuary for men of the law, in the middle of a lawless part of town. A forward base, from which the guards could launch operations into the very heart of the kobold district. With nowhere to return to, the young rats spread throughout the city, unsure of the fate of neither their siblings, nor their parents. They slept on the streets. Before that fateful day, they were trying to prove that they could provide for themselves. Well, now it was time to do or die.

The mother and father of the family were thoroughly interrogated. Torture was not out of the question. But despite everything the lawmen put them through, neither of the rats would squeak. Truth was, they simply didn't know where their murderous child was. But that was not a fact the guards were willing to accept.

The captive rats were dubbed worthless. In broad daylight, they were escorted to the city's largest marketplace. An audience formed, as a pair of crude gallows were erected. Three-Tail, disguised and in hiding, was amongst the crowd. He watched, frozen in place, as a noose was put around his mother's neck. Her eyes locked with his, right before the rope was pulled tight. Her husband struggled against the men that held him, breaking out into tears as life slowly drained from the woman he loved the most. What was even worse, was knowing that he was next.

The people cheered, as the lifeless corpses of the two criminals were lowered back onto the wooden stage. Weeping profusely, their son fled the scene. The next few days, he spent wandering around aimlessly. While still in touch with some of his siblings, life without parents felt empty, and devoid of purpose. His entire existence, up until then, had revolved around providing for the family. With the rodents scattered, and dispersed, he had nothing left to try his hardest for. In all those years of thieving, he had never learned to look out for himself, first and foremost.

Part four: The streets of Varanar

A lesson that Three-Tail would soon be forced to learn. Life on the streets of the kobold district was not easy. Various groups and gangs, more violent than not, ruled the slums. While physically stronger than a single kobold, they never came alone. It was always best to keep a few coins on hand, to pay them off and avoid a beating. They were doing what they had to, in order to survive. A motivation that the rodent himself knew all too well.

A break-in here and there kept Three-Tail fed, and clothed. Most of the money he earned by pawning off valuables, he immediately spent. Carrying too much gold in the slums was a death sentence. A lot of the kobold bandits had no qualms with shanking unruly victims. Even with their new foothold secured, the law had no say here. And without his brothers to back him up, taking a stand against petty criminals was akin to suicide.

Life, however meaningless, continued. The depressed rat went on a spree of burglaries, secretly hoping he'd get caught, and face the same fate his parents did. But was never heard, never seen, and never busted. Three-Tail was too good at what he did. Years of breaking into places out of sheer necessity, had rendered him an expert thief. And turning himself in, would make a mockery out of his parents' sacrifice. They died, not to protect his murderous brother, but to protect all of the rodent siblings. And he would not let their deaths go in vain.

One late night, while prowling through the merchant quarter, looking for a decent place to rob, the rodent suddenly stumbled upon a group of kobolds, huddled up around the front door of a liquor shop. Stocking spirits and drinks from all over the world, the small lizards were undoubtedly looking to score some free booze, in a way that the rat was all too familiar with. However, the lock on this place in particular, was much more intricate than an ordinary padlock. As such, the gang was unable to pick it properly, and without getting through the door, they had no chance of scoring the drinks they so desired.

Part five: The start of something good

Stealthily, Three-Tail approached the group from behind. Once close enough to appear friendly, yet still out of arm's reach of the potentially dangerous kobolds, the rodent announced his presence. They almost bolted at the sound of his voice, but some quick reassurances that they had nothing to fear, combined with a few non-threatening arm gestures, brought the tiny thieves to a precarious stand-still. They observed, as the rat whipped out his own trusty lockpick, the very same one he had won, all those years ago. He approached the door, and in a matter of seconds, managed to do what the entire group could not: unlock it.

The kobolds stormed in. They plundered, looted, and drank to their heart's content. To Three-Tail, it almost felt like having his siblings around again. Almost. After taking as much booze as they could possibly carry, the group of lizards drunkenly stumbled away into the night. And so, too, did the rodent vanish back into the slums. For the first time since his parents were executed publicly, a smile had formed on his face. He was content, knowing he'd helped make the lives of those little ruffians just a little less agonizing. Once again, the kobold district felt like home.

A few days later, the very same group he'd helped that one fateful night, tracked Three-Tail down. They wanted to know how he did it. How he managed to crack open the lock that had them stumped for over half an hour. A mutually beneficial deal was negotiated. The rodent would teach them how to pick all kinds of locks, and plan robberies out, to prevent them from getting caught. In return, the kobolds would hand over a portion of their loot. Everybody wins.

The training was effective. Within weeks, the small group of kobolds went from being an incompetent band of nobodies, to pulling off one successful heist after the other, all orchestrated by Three-Tail, of course. Their notoriety within the criminal underworld was rapidly rising. As victories mounted, a familiar, familial feeling arose within rat. But things were different, this time. Instead of being the one doing the breaking and entering, he sat back and reaped the spoils of his ceaseless planning. He was the patron, and these lizards, these thieves were his children. His trainees. His friends. His family. His gang.

Part six: The rat's nest

The kobolds, too, were pleased with the results of their cooperation. Their new mammalian friend wasn't strict. He didn't demand a lot, nor did he even bother to check whether or not they were giving him a fair cut of the loot. All he asked for, was a few small trinkets for every venture they went on. A tithe. A small price to pay, for his invaluable services.

Envious of the thieves' success, other gangs flocked to the rat. They, too, wanted to be trained and guided. The family grew. But the newcomers did not know their father as Three-Tail. No, they referred to him, the same way everyone else in the kobold district did. The Three-Tailed Rat. That was how he was addressed. A legend was born.

Small tithes added up. Three-Tail was getting richer with every passing day. He could have easily bought a house in a decent part of town, and with a few years of criminal activity more, he could have retired and lived in wealth for the rest of his life. But no. Escaping the kobold district was never on his mind. Instead, the rodent used his growing wealth to purchase the remains of the ancient, half-sunken coliseum. A remnant of older times. The largest landmark in the slums. His new base of operations.

His group needed a name. Something that would inspire fear and awe in those who heard it. At first, Three-Tail opted for a word in the language of rat-men, to honor his parents, and to remember his rodent roots. His dumb kobold compatriots, however, could barely pronounce the simple phrase, let alone memorize it. Reluctantly, the rat gave in to his underlings' stupidity. Henceforth, the group would be known as the Three-Tailed Rat Clan, which was what everyone was already calling them anyway.

Part seven: Appearance matters

With a change of location, came a change of clothing. No longer directly involved with any break-ins himself, the rat could ditch his simple, dirty linen robe. It was good for sneaking around in, but it didn't command any kind of authority at all. He figured that, if he looked a bit more like the criminals and thugs that he dealt with on a daily basis, perhaps they would come to respect him a bit more. Not that the kobolds valued clothing much. But as their leader, he held himself to a higher standard.

What was little more than a torn sack, was replaced by a far more intimidating garb, tailor-made by the finest craftsmen the city had to offer. Armored leggings, with internal pocket-holes to keep his lockpick and a deck of cards. A mostly exposed chest, traditional for rat-men warriors, with various vials, filled with poison, attached to the straps crossing his torso. A hood, with an assorted mask, which allowed him to blend into a crowd, provided he kept his three tails down. And finally, to finish the look, a large, serrated blade. Sharp. Lethal. Imposing.

Make no mistake. Three-Tail had no intentions whatsoever, of using either the poison, or the knife. They were merely there to make him look like he could assassinate the king and get away with it. While he was probably strong enough overpower an unruly kobold or two, the rat didn't actually know how to fight. Underneath the warlord-drab, he was still the same old thief he always was, more prone to running, than to actually use the fancy tools he showcased to keep his subjects in line. The mask he wore, was really just that. A mask. A way to hide his weakness. To conceal his fear, in the face of danger. It worked.

Part eight: Expansion

A lot of the scattered gangs that made up the extensive criminal side of the kobold district, ended up joining the Clan. Not all of them were thieves, however. Some were common thugs, who used numbers and makeshift weapons to squeeze money out of businesses and passers-by alike. The same kind of people who used to hound Three-Tail, were now working for him. He saw them as a necessary evil. A breed that would always exist. At least now, he could put them on a leash, and somewhat limit the harm they did.

With his tendrils reaching beyond the city limits, the rat found various different uses for the toughest of the lot. He put them to work as security, for his many growing ventures, ranging from legitimate work places for kobolds, to shady drug dens where the latest exotic imports were offered. Others served as bouncers in taverns and inns, who paid protection money, and offered free services in return. A few were employed as debt collectors, hunting down those who couldn't or wouldn't pay their dues. The cellars underneath the coliseum held plenty of room for them.

As the Clan grew, so too did their activities broaden. Slave trade, blackmailing officials, smuggling people, and even assassination, became minor notes in the laundry list of illicit activities Three-Tail was involved in. From his seat in the imperial lodge of the ruined coliseum, where thousands of years ago, emperors sat, he ruled his under-empire of thieves and murderers. But the gang was drawing the ire of the higher ranks of society. History was bound to repeat itself once more.

The captain of the guard, who had ensured the premature end of Three-Tail's previous family, had grown to become the baron of Varanar. He would not tolerate organized crime in his city. At least not without him being in control. But taking action against the Three-Tailed Rat Clan proved hard. The rat's kobolds had dirt on just about every city official there was. Coercing or bribing them to veto any move against the Clan, was an easy matter.

Part nine: The rat in the iron mask

But the baron was never one to do things by the book. If he couldn't go after the rat legally, then he would so without the council's blessing. An ambush was set up. During his daily walk through the kobold district, Three-Tail was kidnapped by a group of armed men. Guards in disguise. They took the rat to his old house, where he had a face-to-face with the ruler of the land.

Three-Tail refused to cooperate. He recognized the face of the baron. Saw the human when he was still the captain of the guard, standing on stage, during the execution of his parents. Not in a million years, would the rodent betray their legacy, by working together with the man who killed them.

The rat declining his generous offer, was unfortunate. While it put a wrench in the baron's plans, his schemes were not foiled entirely. He simply had to improvise. What became of Three-Tail, in the end? No one knows. Some say he still rules the Clan, to this very day. Anyone who dares to claim the opposite, is quickly silenced.

Red

Part one: A nobleman's whims

Red, formerly known as Remi, is a short-tempered, crimson-scaled kobold living in the city of Varanar. A genetic mutt, she was born into the servitude of a noble family living in one of the richer districts. Her mother, a slave and a maid both, named Mariah by their host-family, was repeatedly violated by the man of the house, much to his wife's dismay. The human woman frequently beat her kobold maid, blaming the slave for her husband's infidelity.

And so, after many months of mostly-forced adultery and cheating, Remi was born. If it were up to their mistress, the red-scaled baby's mother would have been struck down ages ago. The jealous, childless older woman complained, nagged and threatened to leave if her husband didn't get rid of the vile spawn he had conceived. But the perverted, old nobleman never heeded her much mind. To him, two little playthings were better than one. And it's not like they were expensive to keep. A morsel of food and some leftovers, every now and again, that was all they needed, and that was all they got. If they wanted more, they had to serve, in more ways than one.

From a young age, the unwanted child was molested by her lusty master. The depraved man knew no bounds. Alone, in front of her mother, both at the same time, in front of his own wife, in every hole and every position imaginable. If they struggled, he beat them. Even when behaving, his wife liberally slapped, punched, kicked and hurt the two kobolds, for taking her husband away from her, and to vent some of her pent-up frustration. Mariah tried to explain that they wanted no part in his sick and twisted fantasies, but the woman couldn't care less.

If the kobold slaves weren't there for her husband to cheat on her with, then he would have remained loyal and faithful until the day they died. The young Remi argued that, if the human did not want them there, then she should let them go. But that was not an option. The man of the house insisted on keeping his maids, they had paid a pretty penny for her mother, and they didn't want to seem like they lacked the means to keep a pair of extra mouths. The lady's prestige meant even more to her, than her husband did.

Part two: A woman scorned

One day, the family's already intensive arguments boiled over. Shouting turned to fighting. A kitchen knife was brandished. The old man was stabbed, by his own wife nonetheless. She grieved over his bloodied corpse, weeping in disbelief at her own actions. Fearing what the deranged woman would do to them, Mariah and Remi fled to the streets, to begin their lives anew.

But the murderess still had one final blow to deal to the runaway mother and child. Normally, she'd be arrested for killing her husband in cold blood. But, she did not stab him, or so she claimed when the guards came to investigate. No, it was the kobolds! Their two slaves. They had rebelled against their masters, and fled after beating her up, and stabbing her husband. Who were they going to believe? An overgrown lizard, or a recently widowed noblewoman?

Just a few days after they had tasted freedom, a group of guardsmen came for Remi and her mom. They fled down an alleyway, where the older kobold helped her daughter climb over a slightly-too-high wall. Then, before she could cross over to safety herself, the heavily armed humans in pursuit caught up. The captain of the guard tackled her to the ground, the rest dogpiled on top. Resistance was futile. Watching through a tiny hole in the wall, Red witnessed Mariah get taken away, escorted out of the alley in cuffs. That was the last time she ever saw her mother.

Part three: Freedom

Remi was alone and afraid. In the outside world, which she had never even seen apart from staring out the window. Without Mariah to take care of her. At least the guards weren't after the young kobold child. Rumor had it, that her mother confessed to having done everything the noblewoman said she had done, but claimed to have acted on her own, so there was no reason to go after her lonesome daughter. Now, at least one of them had a chance at a normal life.

Normal, for a kobold, at least. The red-scaled kobold soon discovered that living on the streets, was a lot like how things used to be, back at the mansion. Begging for scraps left her with barely anything to eat. Roving gangs of all walks of life preyed on weak, isolated people like herself. Vicious beatings, just for fun, were a common occurrence. When they were still slaves, her mother had taught her an invaluable lesson: to stay down, instead of trying to get up. There was no point in fighting back. She'd only get hurt more.

Often, she was forced to humiliate herself for her assailants' amusement. Made to dance, threatened into say various nasty things, told to spread her legs, or to remove her clothing. A few times, mostly when dealing with drunkards, or when begging too close to a brothel, beatdowns escalated into gang-rapes. While there was little her former master had not made her do already, the crimson-scaled beggar was subject to some of the worst debauchery the city had ever seen. Things not even the finest of whores would do. But the choice was simple. Do it, or die. Just like home.

Whenever a gang passed by, whatever coins Remi had collected were taken. Hiding the money was her first intuition. On her body, in an alleyway, hidden underneath a loose brick. They'd always find it, no matter where she'd put it. If not the gangs themselves, then some lucky passerby stumbling upon one of her meagre stashes. Eventually, she learned to spend what little she had, before others could get to her hard-earned gold.

Part four: Remi is dead

As years went by, the name Remi faded into obscurity. The kobold herself didn't like it. It reminded her of the past. Of being a slave. But that's not who she was anymore. She was free now, even if it was a pitiful existence, at the bottom of society, and at the bottom of the food chain. The few friends the rapidly growing girl had, referred to her by the color of her scales. Red. The name stuck. She's used it ever since.

All of the beatings had left her tough and hardened. She wasn't particularly good at fighting, but she could take a punch or two and come out swinging. And in some jobs, that's all you need. So, Red was hired by a shady tavern in the bad part of the kobold district of Varanar, to serve as a bouncer. The patronage was mostly kobolds, like herself. They hit a whole lot less hard than humans, but their sharp claws were a force to be reckoned with. Her scales were raked open more than once, but luckily there was always plenty of alcohol around with which to disinfect her wounds.

On top of being more agile than the people Red was used to getting beaten by, the kobolds also fought more dirty than the other races she'd gotten into scraps with. Many resorted to throwing bottles at her, attacking her while her back was turned, or throwing dust, sand, booze, or even powdery drugs in her face to disorient the bouncer-girl. A few even had the gall to punch her more womanly parts, like her well-grown chest, or the sensitive slit in between her legs.

While she had naturally grown to be hardy and resilient, the red-scaled kobold was not invincible. More than once, she was knocked out, only to wake up out back, in the trash, covered in cum, piss, booze and various other liquids. Some of the patrons she fought were less courteous as to wait until she was knocked out. They'd beat her senseless, then gather a drunken crowd and molest her in front of them. Groups of rowdy customers, were especially prone to holding her down through sheer numbers alone, bending her over a table, and then running a train on the poor female bouncer.

Whenever his most brawny employee got into a fight, the tavern owner looked the other way, not getting involved no matter what happened. She was being paid plenty to get knocked senseless and fucked silly every now and again. Of course, the clientele knew that if they killed Red, they'd anger her boss. And someone with his connections, everyone wanted to keep on their good side. He even graciously allowed the foolish girl to sleep in the building overnight, to prevent any burglaries, and to keep her off the streets.

Part five: Warm, for a while

While Red was busy increasing her proficiency as a brawler, the city guards upped their scarce presence in the kobold quarter. Most of the crime perpetrated in Varanar could be traced back to this lawless district, and as such, the newly appointed baron had ordered a crackdown on criminals living in the area, in a vain attempt to improve life for the common man. Eventually, the tavern the crimson kobold was a bouncer for, was raided at night. Red wisely stayed out of the ensuing fight between the law, and various thugs banding together out of necessity.

In the middle of the heated scrap, a lantern was thrown across the room, ending up shattering right on top of the booze stash. The burning oil set fire to the alcohol, and within minutes, the entire tavern was aflame. Everyone, including Red, evacuated the building. Some, amongst which the owner of the place, did not make it out alive.

With a heavy sigh and mixed feelings, the ex-bouncer watched as the only roof she'd slept under since regaining her freedom, burned down to the ground. Back to living on the streets. A successful raid, the guards called it. Successful in ruining everything the young woman had going for her, alright. Back to square one.

Disheartened, Red took a long, pondering stroll around town. She had enough money to last her for about a week or two, provided nobody took it from her. If she solely spent it on food, that was. Inn rooms did not come cheap. Definitely out of her budget. Getting a job outside of the kobold district was not going to happen. The humans would rather buy a slave, than a hire a kobold. With the place she'd called home for more than year still being combed through by the city guards, most of the not-so-legitimate businessmen there had temporarily closed shop. And in the kobold quarter, every businessman was not-so-legitimate.

Part six: Home, sweet home

On the verge of relenting to her fate of being a homeless bum once more, the crimson kobold halted her relaxing pace in front of a peculiar building near the center of the city, with several large and brightly colored banners hanging from the roof-down, nearly all the way to the ground. While Red, being unable to read, couldn't understand the words inscribed on the wooden sign hanging above the door, it had various depictions of fists and poorly-etched illustrations of men fighting. The small lizard was captivated. The burning curiosity inherent to her species, compelled her to take a look inside. Swinging open the large and heavy door, what looked like heaven was revealed to her.

A wrestling ring. A pair of orcs casually sparring. A massive equine beating the shit out of a bale of hay, strung up from the ceiling. An oddly dressed cat performing some kind of meditation, before karate-chopping the stack of bricks in front of him, completely shattering them. A couple of dragons, practicing kicking and dodging. A large tiger, using a towel to wipe the sweat off of a chubby-looking canine, with both his eyes bruised near-shut.

The fighters' guild, or so a goblin sitting behind a small desk to the side welcomed her to. Where people come to train, to spar, to vent frustration and to pick up various job postings from legal and less legal source. Red was flabbergasted. A million thoughts flew through her mind. How the heck did she not know this existed?! It was perfect for her! Dumbstruck, the overjoyed kobold asked the first thing that came to mind: how could she join?

There was an entrance fee, a one-time payment for a lifetime membership. After counting every single last coin she had, the goblin was happy to report that that was exactly the price of admission. It was only later that the naive lizard discovered that membership was actually free, and that the goblin wasn't officially part of the guild, he just owned the building they used as their base of operations in Varanar. He never did return her money.

Part seven: The rules

A friendly mouse, the runt of the litter, someone even Red could beat up with ease, showed her around. The entire place was one big, multi-level, indoor gymnasium, stuffed to the brim with training gear and equipment, for combat styles from pugilism to armed combat. Everyone who wanted to be part of the guard, the army or even most local gangs, started out here.

While honing her skills without getting beaten to a pulp had already piqued her interest, Red could not stop herself from asking about the jobs the goblin had mentioned. The mouse explained that they were more like mercenary contracts. They often involved squeezing a debt out of someone, or retrieving some item that was stolen, or vacating squatters from empty homes. They ranged from honest work, to little more than criminal activity, but that could be said about most things in Varanar.

But, there was a catch. In order to take the jobs, the kobold had to be a part of the guild. There were no entrance exams, trials or fees involved, but she did have to abide by some simple rules. Within the walls of the guild, there could be no fighting outside of the ring. Simple enough. When challenged to a fight by another guild member, the challenge had to be accepted. A little weird, but who'd want to fight her anyway? And finally, the winner of a fight was allowed to do anything to the loser, that they so pleased. Anything? Anything.

Killing your opponent was heavily frowned upon, but it was technically allowed. The guild, however, hadn't seen a combat-ring death, since their previous leader had his head torn off by the current guild-master. It was a pretty brutal display. Best not to go into details. So, it was pretty much a more organized version of the fights she got into at the bar, and on the streets. With less chance of being murdered, and hopefully less broken bottles being used as stabbing weapons. Great!

Part eight: Good tradition

Besides the rules, there was one more thing Red needed to know. To the guild, honor meant everything. Stabbing someone in the back, was not something they condoned of. Fights had to be somewhat fair in terms of setup. Fists on fists, swords on swords, staves on staves. But who fights who? No restrictions there. In practice, this meant that the more powerful members of the group, often targeted the weaker ones. And after a few fights, they tended to get bored of just beating their prey to a pulp. As a result, various non-guild-approved acts had become commonplace post-combat.

The mouse was obviously speaking out of experience. But hey, it couldn't be worse than what the crimson lizard had already been through, right? And maybe she could even keep an eye out for him. She'd watch his back, and in turn, he could watch her tail. Not literally stare at her tail, but -- He understood.

Then, the rodent introduced the latest member of the guild to some of the most prominent local fighters. To Red's surprise, she already knew a bunch of these people! Or, well, they'd beat her up the past. Petty criminals, half of them. But the mouse insisted they were trying to change their ways. Still, the kobold could feel their contempt. It soon became very clear that she wasn't going to be friends with everyone here.

While kobold members were not so unheard of, this was the first time in the history of the Varanar chapter of the guild, that a female kobold was joining their ranks. This did not sit well with all of the fighters. And so, not only her old acquaintances, but also a bunch of new people came to dislike her. She'd only been in the guild for a few minutes, and she'd already racked up more enemies than during her entire lifetime on the streets.

Part nine: Challenged

Still, despite generally being disliked, Red's first few days at the guild were amazing. She sparred with the few people that didn't hate her guts, she got to stay in the barracks upstairs overnight, the mouse brought in actual food for her to eat, and the assignments she accepted were easy and quick. For the first time in her entire life, the kobold truly felt at home. And with the coins she earned, she could start to repay her rodent friend, for all he'd done for her.

But the aspiring fighter was drawing more than a little unwanted attention. The other members of the guild played cruel pranks on her, openly insulted her and talked bad of her behind her back. They snatched assignments from her clutches, and were openly hostile outside of the guild hall. She even received a few death threats, telling her to get out while she still could. Not that the illiterate kobold could understand what was written on the crumpled pieces of paper that were thrown at her.

Since picking on her wasn't driving their latest member off, Red's bullies turned to more direct ways of trying to get her to leave. Acting within the rules of the guild, a big and burly, kobold-pig half-breed challenged her to a duel. She had no choice but to accept. He brutally beat her to within an inch of her life, then cruelly toyed with her battered body for hours on end. Surely, that would scare her away, right?

It didn't. Prior to becoming a guildmember, being abused and molested was a near-daily event for the crimson-scaled warrior. She was used to it by now. If anything, she thought the half-pig went easy on her. That pansy didn't even rape her or anything! Not that she wanted to get raped, but based on what the mouse had told her, she imagined that was kind of the way things went around here. All-in-all, it wasn't that bad.

Part ten: Like the old days

A week later, the kobold was back in action. Looks like she didn't get the message. A new challenger appeared. An orc. Large and brutish. One blow was all it took to end the fight, knocking her senseless, sending her body flying across the ring, before plummeting to the ground. Then, he crawled on top of her, and violated her for all the guild to see. A small crowd formed. They cheered for him. Now this was more the way she was expecting -- and dreading -- her first loss to go.

Things only got worse from thereon out. As weeks turned to months turned to years, Red spent more time in the infirmary than she did on assignments. Every time she was beaten, her opponents came up with new ways to defile, humiliate, hurt and degrade her. Bones were broken, breasts were beaten, various feral animals were involved, and it seemed like a lot of the members of the guild had a penchant for sweat. There wasn't a body part that she didn't end up getting intimately familiar with against her will.

It's not like she could decline them their fun. She'd be kicked out of the guild. Lose her only source of income. Get booted to the streets once more. Go back to being a homeless beggar. Never again. She'd tough things out, or die trying. In time, they'd either kill her, or come to accept her. Rather the latter than the former, but some of the things they made her do sure did make the crimson lizard wish for death.

While strong, for her kind, Red was still a kobold. She couldn't beat nearly any of her peers, and a lot of assignments were out of her reach. Even outside of the guild, she ended up losing several fights. It wasn't pretty, and it wasn't fun, but she made a living. An honest, decent living. And that's all that mattered. She didn't strive to be the best, and while being beaten was always a traumatic experience, she never let it keep her down.

Part eleven: Love and victory

In a few, rare instances, the red-scaled kobold managed to win against her opponents. She'd leverage their size and bulk against them, and use all of the techniques and skills she'd learned to knock them down, and knock them out. Maybe their overly cruel spartan training was paying off, or perhaps she was simply growing stronger of her own accord.

Either way, the urge to kill the scumbags, that had taken advantage of her so many times, was exceedingly strong. It was within the rules, as was explained to her a long time ago. But she knew that, if she dared to even touch one of them after beating him, her next opponent would wring her neck for sure. And so, Red begrudgingly offered her hand, to pick up the men that had violated her in oh-so many ways. While they continued to sate themselves on her body whenever she lost, she had to help them get back on their feet when she won. Her display of self-control still didn't manage to win her any friends.

At least, with the kobold taking the brunt of the bullying, her rodent friend was free from harm. He was the one they picked on before her arrival, and now the rest of the group had sort of forgotten about him, referring to him only as that pussy that brings food sometimes.

No matter how much she was beaten and bloodied, it always brought a smile to Red's face, when the first thing she saw upon waking up from being knocked out, was the mouse, without a scratch on his face. He tended to her wounds, fed her when she was unable to walk, and gave her whatever tips he could offer in order to prepare her for her next challenge. Because a next challenge, there would always be. Love bloomed between the two. But it was not meant to last.

Part twelve: One more job

Taking up an exceedingly dangerous job, to prove her worth to the rest of the crew, the crimson kobold set off to find a mages' guild adept, gone missing in the slums. She found her mark, taken prisoner by a nasty-looking human, running a slave-driven massage parlor. He wouldn't let go of his captive, so a fight ensued. The lashes of his barbed whip hurt. A lot. Despite all of her training, Red couldn't take it. She crumpled in pain. Passed out.

Things are blurry from that point onwards. For months on end, she was starved, tortured, kept in a tiny prison cell with little hygiene and little sunlight. While her mind never broke, eventually she became somewhat docile. Still rebellious, but tame enough to be put to work. She was forced to service the bigger species, the ones where she could put her superior strength to use, to loosen their knots and to ease their aching muscles. Like the mouse used to do for her.

A few members of the guild stopped by, every now and again. The owner of the massage parlor paid them off, promised them as much time alone with Red as they could possibly want, in return for keeping quiet about her, and the captured magic enthusiast both. The meagre pay the mages' guild was offering, paled to the thought of abusing the cocky little kobold. Word spread like wildfire, through certain circles. Some of the men she'd defeated in the ring found their way to her, and used the opportunity to enact some just revenge, by wreaking havoc on her body in more ways than one.

The once-proud fighter, had been reduced to nothing more than a slave, and a fucktoy for the people she hated the most. While she could take losing a fight and facing the consequences, there was nothing honorable about being beaten and defiled while chained to a wall. In secret, she spent many nights punching walls, doing push-ups, and practicing her technique. One of these days. One of these days, she'd beat her slave-owner to a pulp, free her fellow captives, claim the reward from the mages' guild, and then come back to finish him off for what he'd done to her.

Will Moe free the crimson-scaled fighter, or will she be left to rot in enslavement forevermore? Will Red's revenge be snatched away from her, along with any chance she had of redeeming herself? Or will she get a chance of her own to murder that filthy swine? Only one thing remains sure. Remi is dead. And Red would rather die, than live the rest of her life as a slave.

Red

Part one: A nobleman's whims

Red, formerly known as Remi, is a short-tempered, crimson-scaled kobold living in the city of Varanar. A genetic mutt, she was born into the servitude of a noble family living in one of the richer districts. Her mother, a slave and a maid both, named Mariah by their host-family, served mainly as a piece of eye candy for man of the house, much to his wife's dismay. The human woman frequently beat her kobold maid, blaming the slave for her husband's infidelity.

And so, after many months of one-sided fooling around, Remi was born. If it were up to their mistress, the red-scaled baby's mother would have been struck down ages ago. The jealous, childless older woman complained, nagged and threatened to leave if her husband didn't get rid of the vile spawn he had conceived. But the old nobleman never heeded her much mind. To him, two maids were better than one. And it's not like they were expensive to keep. A morsel of food and some leftovers, every now and again, that was all they needed, and that was all they got.

The woman of the house was overly upset with her husband's behavior. Even when behaving, the two kobolds were liberally slapped, punched, kicked and hurt. She claimed they were taking her husband away from her, and she had a lot of pent-up frustration to vent. Mariah tried to explain that they wanted no part in the man's sick and twisted fantasies, but the woman couldn't care less.

If the kobold slaves weren't there to tempt her husband, then he would have remained loyal and faithful until the day they died. The young Remi argued that, if the human did not want them there, then she should let them go. But that was not an option. The man of the house insisted on keeping his maids, they had paid a pretty penny for her mother, and they didn't want to seem like they lacked the means to keep a pair of extra mouths. The lady's prestige meant even more to her, than her husband did.

Part two: A woman scorned

One day, the family's already intensive arguments boiled over. Shouting turned to fighting. A kitchen knife was brandished. The old man was stabbed, by his own wife nonetheless. She grieved over his bloodied corpse, weeping in disbelief at her own actions. Fearing what the deranged woman would do to them, Mariah and Remi fled to the streets, to begin their lives anew.

But the murderess still had one final blow to deal to the runaway mother and child. Normally, she'd be arrested for killing her husband in cold blood. But, she did not stab him, or so she claimed when the guards came to investigate. No, it was the kobolds! Their two slaves. They had rebelled against their masters, and fled after beating her up, and stabbing her husband. Who were they going to believe? An overgrown lizard, or a recently widowed noblewoman?

Just a few days after they had tasted freedom, a group of guardsmen came for Remi and her mom. They fled down an alleyway, where the older kobold helped her daughter climb over a slightly-too-high wall. Then, before she could cross over to safety herself, the heavily armed humans in pursuit caught up. The captain of the guard tackled her to the ground, the rest dogpiled on top. Resistance was futile. Watching through a tiny hole in the wall, Red witnessed Mariah get taken away, escorted out of the alley in cuffs. That was the last time she ever saw her mother.

Part three: Freedom

Remi was alone and afraid. In the outside world, which she had never even seen apart from staring out the window. Without Mariah to take care of her. At least the guards weren't after the young kobold child. Rumor had it, that her mother confessed to having done everything the noblewoman said she had done, but claimed to have acted on her own, so there was no reason to go after her lonesome daughter. Now, at least one of them had a chance at a normal life.

Normal, for a kobold, at least. The red-scaled kobold soon discovered that living on the streets, was a lot like how things used to be, back at the mansion. Begging for scraps left her with barely anything to eat. Roving gangs of all walks of life preyed on weak, isolated people like herself. Vicious beatings, just for fun, were a common occurrence. When they were still slaves, her mother had taught her an invaluable lesson: to stay down, instead of trying to get up. There was no point in fighting back. She'd only get hurt more.

Whenever a gang passed by, whatever coins Remi had collected were taken. Hiding the money was her first intuition. On her person, in an alleyway, hidden underneath a loose brick. They'd always find it, no matter where she'd put it. If not the gangs themselves, then some lucky passerby stumbling upon one of her meagre stashes. Eventually, she learned to spend what little she had, before others could get to her hard-earned gold.

Part four: Remi is dead

As years went by, the name Remi faded into obscurity. The kobold herself didn't like it. It reminded her of the past. Of being a slave. But that's not who she was anymore. She was free now, even if it was a pitiful existence, at the bottom of society, and at the bottom of the food chain. The few friends the rapidly growing girl had, referred to her by the color of her scales. Red. The name stuck. She's used it ever since.

All of the beatings had left her tough and hardened. She wasn't particularly good at fighting, but she could take a punch or two and come out swinging. And in some jobs, that's all you need. So, Red was hired by a shady tavern in the bad part of the kobold district of Varanar, to serve as a bouncer. The patronage was mostly kobolds, like herself. They hit a whole lot less hard than humans, but their sharp claws were a force to be reckoned with. Her scales were raked open more than once, but luckily there was always plenty of alcohol around with which to disinfect her wounds.

On top of being more agile than the people Red was used to getting beaten by, the kobolds also fought more dirty than the other races she'd gotten into scraps with. Many resorted to throwing bottles at her, attacking her while her back was turned, or throwing dust, sand, booze, or even powdery drugs in her face to disorient the bouncer-girl. While she had naturally grown to be hardy and resilient, the red-scaled kobold was not invincible. More than once, she was knocked out, only to wake up out back, in the trash.

Whenever his most brawny employee got into a fight, the tavern owner looked the other way, not getting involved no matter what happened. She was being paid plenty to get knocked senseless every now and again. Of course, the clientele knew that if they killed Red, they'd anger her boss. And someone with his connections, everyone wanted to keep on their good side. He even graciously allowed the foolish girl to sleep in the building overnight, to prevent any burglaries, and to keep her off the streets.

Part five: Warm, for a while

While Red was busy increasing her proficiency as a brawler, the city guards upped their scarce presence in the kobold quarter. Most of the crime perpetrated in Varanar could be traced back to this lawless district, and as such, the newly appointed baron had ordered a crackdown on criminals living in the area, in a vain attempt to improve life for the common man. Eventually, the tavern the crimson kobold was a bouncer for, was raided at night. Red wisely stayed out of the ensuing fight between the law, and various thugs banding together out of necessity.

In the middle of the heated scrap, a lantern was thrown across the room, ending up shattering right on top of the booze stash. The burning oil set fire to the alcohol, and within minutes, the entire tavern was aflame. Everyone, including Red, evacuated the building. Some, amongst which the owner of the place, did not make it out alive.

With a heavy sigh and mixed feelings, the ex-bouncer watched as the only roof she'd slept under since regaining her freedom, burned down to the ground. Back to living on the streets. A successful raid, the guards called it. Successful in ruining everything the young woman had going for her, alright. Back to square one.

Disheartened, Red took a long, pondering stroll around town. She had enough money to last her for about a week or two, provided nobody took it from her. If she solely spent it on food, that was. Inn rooms did not come cheap. Definitely out of her budget. Getting a job outside of the kobold district was not going to happen. The humans would rather buy a slave, than a hire a kobold. With the place she'd called home for more than year still being combed through by the city guards, most of the not-so-legitimate businessmen there had temporarily closed shop. And in the kobold quarter, every businessman was not-so-legitimate.

Part six: Home, sweet home

On the verge of relenting to her fate of being a homeless bum once more, the crimson kobold halted her relaxing pace in front of a peculiar building near the center of the city, with several large and brightly colored banners hanging from the roof-down, nearly all the way to the ground. While Red, being unable to read, couldn't understand the words inscribed on the wooden sign hanging above the door, it had various depictions of fists and poorly-etched illustrations of men fighting. The small lizard was captivated. The burning curiosity inherent to her species, compelled her to take a look inside. Swinging open the large and heavy door, what looked like heaven was revealed to her.

A wrestling ring. A pair of orcs casually sparring. A massive equine beating the shit out of a bale of hay, strung up from the ceiling. An oddly dressed cat performing some kind of meditation, before karate-chopping the stack of bricks in front of him, completely shattering them. A couple of dragons, practicing kicking and dodging. A large tiger, using a towel to wipe the sweat off of a chubby-looking canine, with both his eyes bruised near-shut.

The fighters' guild, or so a goblin sitting behind a small desk to the side welcomed her to. Where people come to train, to spar, to vent frustration and to pick up various job postings from legal and less legal source. Red was flabbergasted. A million thoughts flew through her mind. How the heck did she not know this existed?! It was perfect for her! Dumbstruck, the overjoyed kobold asked the first thing that came to mind: how could she join?

There was an entrance fee, a one-time payment for a lifetime membership. After counting every single last coin she had, the goblin was happy to report that that was exactly the price of admission. It was only later that the naive lizard discovered that membership was actually free, and that the goblin wasn't officially part of the guild, he just owned the building they used as their base of operations in Varanar. He never did return her money.

Part seven: The rules

A friendly mouse, the runt of the litter, someone even Red could beat up with ease, showed her around. The entire place was one big, multi-level, indoor gymnasium, stuffed to the brim with training gear and equipment, for combat styles from pugilism to armed combat. Everyone who wanted to be part of the guard, the army or even most local gangs, started out here.

While honing her skills without getting beaten to a pulp had already piqued her interest, Red could not stop herself from asking about the jobs the goblin had mentioned. The mouse explained that they were more like mercenary contracts. They often involved squeezing a debt out of someone, or retrieving some item that was stolen, or vacating squatters from empty homes. They ranged from honest work, to little more than criminal activity, but that could be said about most things in Varanar.

But, there was a catch. In order to take the jobs, the kobold had to be a part of the guild. There were no entrance exams, trials or fees involved, but she did have to abide by some simple rules. Within the walls of the guild, there could be no fighting outside of the ring. Simple enough. When challenged to a fight by another guild member, the challenge had to be accepted. A little weird, but who'd want to fight her anyway? And finally, the winner of a fight was allowed to do anything to the loser, that they so pleased. Anything? Anything.

Killing your opponent was heavily frowned upon, but it was technically allowed. The guild, however, hadn't seen a combat-ring death, since their previous leader had his head torn off by the current guild-master. It was a pretty brutal display. Best not to go into details. So, it was pretty much a more organized version of the fights she got into at the bar, and on the streets. With less chance of being murdered, and hopefully less broken bottles being used as stabbing weapons. Great!

Part eight: Good tradition

Besides the rules, there was one more thing Red needed to know. To the guild, honor meant everything. Stabbing someone in the back, was not something they condoned of. Fights had to be somewhat fair in terms of setup. Fists on fists, swords on swords, staves on staves. But who fights who? No restrictions there. In practice, this meant that the more powerful members of the group, often targeted the weaker ones. And after a few fights, they tended to get bored of just beating their prey to a pulp. As a result, various non-guild-approved acts had become commonplace post-combat.

The mouse was obviously speaking out of experience. But hey, it couldn't be worse than what the crimson lizard had already been through, right? And maybe she could even keep an eye out for him. She'd watch his back, and in turn, he could watch her tail. Not literally stare at her tail, but -- He understood.

Then, the rodent introduced the latest member of the guild to some of the most prominent local fighters. To Red's surprise, she already knew a bunch of these people! Or, well, they'd beat her up the past. Petty criminals, half of them. But the mouse insisted they were trying to change their ways. Still, the kobold could feel their contempt. It soon became very clear that she wasn't going to be friends with everyone here.

While kobold members were not so unheard of, this was the first time in the history of the Varanar chapter of the guild, that a female kobold was joining their ranks. This did not sit well with all of the fighters. And so, not only her old acquaintances, but also a bunch of new people came to dislike her. She'd only been in the guild for a few minutes, and she'd already racked up more enemies than during her entire lifetime on the streets.

Part nine: Challenged

Still, despite generally being disliked, Red's first few days at the guild were amazing. She sparred with the few people that didn't hate her guts, she got to stay in the barracks upstairs overnight, the mouse brought in actual food for her to eat, and the assignments she accepted were easy and quick. For the first time in her entire life, the kobold truly felt at home. And with the coins she earned, she could start to repay her rodent friend, for all he'd done for her.

But the aspiring fighter was drawing more than a little unwanted attention. The other members of the guild played cruel pranks on her, openly insulted her and talked bad of her behind her back. They snatched assignments from her clutches, and were openly hostile outside of the guild hall. She even received a few death threats, telling her to get out while she still could. Not that the illiterate kobold could understand what was written on the crumpled pieces of paper that were thrown at her.

Since picking on her wasn't driving their latest member off, Red's bullies turned to more direct ways of trying to get her to leave. Acting within the rules of the guild, a big and burly, kobold-pig half-breed challenged her to a duel. She had no choice but to accept. He brutally beat her to within an inch of her life, then paraded her battered body around for all to see. Surely, that would scare her away, right?

It didn't. Prior to becoming a guildmember, being abused was a near-daily event for the crimson-scaled warrior. She was used to it by now. If anything, she thought the half-pig went easy on her. That pansy didn't even break any of her bones! Not that she wanted to get even more hurt, but based on what the mouse had told her, she imagined that was kind of the way things went around here. All-in-all, it wasn't that bad.

Part ten: Like the old days

A week later, the kobold was back in action. Looks like she didn't get the message. A new challenger appeared. An orc. Large and brutish. One blow was all it took to end the fight, knocking her senseless, sending her body flying across the ring, before plummeting to the ground. Then, he crawled on top of her, and pummelled her for all the guild to see, until she was little more than a bloody mess. A small crowd formed. They cheered for him. Now this was more the way she was expecting -- and dreading -- her first loss to go.

Things only got worse from thereon out. As weeks turned to months turned to years, Red spent more time in the infirmary than she did on assignments. Every time she was beaten, her opponents came up with new ways to humiliate, hurt and degrade her. Bones were broken, her throat was squeezed shut more times than she could count, and she had to admit how she didn't belong in the guild, over and over and over again.

It's not like she could decline them their fun. She'd be kicked out of the guild. Lose her only source of income. Get booted to the streets once more. Go back to being a homeless beggar. Never again. She'd tough things out, or die trying. In time, they'd either kill her, or come to accept her. Rather the latter than the former.

While strong, for her kind, Red was still a kobold. She couldn't beat nearly any of her peers, and a lot of assignments were out of her reach. Even outside of the guild, she ended up losing several fights. It wasn't pretty, and it wasn't fun, but she made a living. An honest, decent living. And that's all that mattered. She didn't strive to be the best, and while being beaten was always a traumatic experience, she never let it keep her down.

Part eleven: Love and victory

In a few, rare instances, the red-scaled kobold managed to win against her opponents. She'd leverage their size and bulk against them, and use all of the techniques and skills she'd learned to knock them down, and knock them out. Maybe their overly cruel spartan training was paying off, or perhaps she was simply growing stronger of her own accord.

Either way, the urge to kill the scumbags, that had taken advantage of her so many times, was exceedingly strong. It was within the rules, as was explained to her a long time ago. But she knew that, if she dared to even touch one of them after beating him, her next opponent would wring her neck for sure. And so, Red begrudgingly offered her hand, to pick up the men that had humiliated her in oh-so many ways. While they continued to wreck her body whenever she lost, she had to help them get back on their feet when she won. Her display of self-control still didn't manage to win her any friends.

At least, with the kobold taking the brunt of the bullying, her rodent friend was free from harm. He was the one they picked on before her arrival, and now the rest of the group had sort of forgotten about him, referring to him only as that pussy that brings food sometimes.

No matter how much she was beaten and bloodied, it always brought a smile to Red's face, when the first thing she saw upon waking up from being knocked out, was the mouse, without a scratch on his face. He tended to her wounds, fed her when she was unable to walk, and gave her whatever tips he could offer in order to prepare her for her next challenge. Because a next challenge, there would always be. Love bloomed between the two. But it was not meant to last.

Part twelve: One more job

Taking up an exceedingly dangerous job, to prove her worth to the rest of the crew, the crimson kobold set off to find a mages' guild adept, gone missing in the slums. She found her mark, taken prisoner by a nasty-looking human, running a slave-driven massage parlor. He wouldn't let go of his captive, so a fight ensued. The lashes of his barbed whip hurt. A lot. Despite all of her training, Red couldn't take it. She crumpled in pain. Passed out.

Things are blurry from that point onwards. For months on end, she was starved, tortured, kept in a tiny prison cell with little hygiene and little sunlight. While her mind never broke, eventually she became somewhat docile. Still rebellious, but tame enough to be put to work. She was forced to service the bigger species, the ones where she could put her superior strength to use, to loosen their knots and to ease their aching muscles. Like the mouse used to do for her.

A few members of the guild stopped by, every now and again. The owner of the massage parlor paid them off, promised them as much time alone with Red as they could possibly want, in return for keeping quiet about her, and the captured magic enthusiast both. The meagre pay the mages' guild was offering, paled to the thought of abusing the cocky little kobold. Word spread like wildfire, through certain circles. Some of the men she'd defeated in the ring found their way to her, and used the opportunity to enact some just revenge, by wreaking havoc on her body.

The once-proud fighter, had been reduced to nothing more than a slave, and a punching bag for the people she hated the most. While she could take losing a fight and facing the consequences, there was nothing honorable about being beaten while chained to a wall. In secret, she spent many nights punching walls, doing push-ups, and practicing her technique. One of these days. One of these days, she'd beat her slave-owner to a pulp, free her fellow captives, claim the reward from the mages' guild, and then come back to finish him off for what he'd done to her.

Will Moe free the crimson-scaled fighter, or will she be left to rot in enslavement forevermore? Will Red's revenge be snatched away from her, along with any chance she had of redeeming herself? Or will she get a chance of her own to murder that filthy swine? Only one thing remains sure. Remi is dead. And Red would rather die, than live the rest of her life as a slave.

Rolande

Part one: Dragons

Dragons. Dragons are a sophisticated, shrewd, noble, and fierce species. Descending from the massive ferals of old, they are the result of millennia of crossbreeding, leading to their kind becoming far more anthropomorphic in nature. Ever since they, as a species, formed their own language, the dragons have grown to become natural leaders, acting as ambassadors, diplomats and nobles all over the world. Through the ages, they have formed a massive empire in the east, spanning untold amounts of land, all ruled by the single most powerful person in the entire world: the legendary Dragon Emperor.

So large is the realm of dragons, that there is a remarkable difference between the east, and the west of the empire. In the east, where the emperor resides, the bureaucracy reigns supreme. Cities are structured and organized. The rule of the law is absolute. Honor and duty are valued above all. Heavily armored dragon knights ride their mighty steeds throughout the land, dispensing the will of the emperor, and upholding the law on his behalf.

The further away you stray from the east, the less honor-bound dragons you will find. The inhabitants of the western half of the empire, are more focused on personal wealth and prestige, than they are concerned about following laws, or being in the right. To the average dragon in the west, the ends justify the means. This has lead to draconids as a whole being perceived as greedy and self-centered by the outside world.

To the humans especially, dragons are seen as power hungry despots. An ever-present threat, permeating the upper ranks of their society, hoarding gold, spending it only to hire assassins to stab their would-be rivals in the back. Ironic, seeing as most historians would argue that the divide between the eastern and westerns halves of the dragon empire, came into being due to contact with the humans in the first place. The humans often refused to honor their side of bargains, contracts and trade deals, thus scamming their bureaucracy-bound clients out of a great deal of money, wares and even land. The once-naive dragons simply adapted to their environment, growing conniving enough to out-trick their treacherous trading partners.

Part two: The lesser evil

While the eastern dragon realms were confederating peacefully, the kingdoms in the west were too turbulent to unite. Frequent wars and rampant treachery kept the balance of power constantly fluctuating. The humans took advantage of the infighting, applying military pressure to the isolated draconic kings, forcing them to pay tribute, or face imminent retribution. Only the emperor himself had the means to stave off a fullblown human invasion. And so, one by one, the kings flocked to the banner of the growing empire of the east, relying on the mighty imperial army to dissuade any threats of force.

The kings maintained much of their autonomy, although the constant warring amongst one another was a thing of the past. The empire's expansion did not sit well with many human lords and rulers, fostering a discontent that would last throughout the ages, further degrading the already negative disposition towards draconids in the human kingdom. A lot of people, from commoners to noblemen, openly preach their hatred for dragonkind. But still, the pompous bastards are tolerated, mostly because they run a lot of businesses vital to the proper function of many major human cities and towns and hamlets alike.

Without dragons, there would be a massive void in the upper classes of society, one not so easily filled by the mostly unschooled work force of the humans. They are farmers and peasants, labourers and builders. While there are, of course, exceptions, the majority of humans prefer to follow, instead of lead. They work the fields and bake loaves of bread, but the land, the bakery, and the store where the bread is sold are all owned by dragons, who pay wages based on how well their employees perform. Natural born rulers. And with such inherent skill, comes a great deal of envy.

In more recent days, trouble brewing in the east has occupied most of the imperial army. If the humans were to strike now, they could undoubtedly overrun several of the smaller kingdoms of the west, before the emperor even has a chance to retaliate. However, such a strategic move can not be made without consulting the king. The king, who is currently on a crusade, in a land far, far away. His absence guarantees the dragons' safety. For so long as there is no king, there can be no war.

Part three: The family

But enough about history and politics. Rolande Grabgold is an anthropomorphic dragon shopkeeper, living in the beating heart of the human kingdom: Varanar. In his store, he sells everything from food to potions to armor and even weaponry. Despite the plummeting public opinion on dragons, he's managing to make ends meet and then some. If anything, the growing mutual hatred between the two largest groups in town is beneficial to his trade, concerned citizens on both sides of the fence stocking up on supplies, fearing the shortening fuse of the social powderkeg that is Varanar, will soon run out.

Rolande grew up in a big, mixed family of both humans and dragons. When he was only a few years old, his dragon-mother had an unfortunate run-in with a few hoodlums in the wrong part of town. She did not make it out alive. His exceptionally fertile and ever-lusty draconic father refused to let the incident keep him down for long. He was quick to remarry, betrothing a pretty young human girl, almost half his age. This did not sit well, with neither the draconic, nor the human communities. Rumors emerged, claiming they met in a brothel, and that Grabgold Senior himself had ordained his first wife's demise, so he could be together with his new, money-hungry fling.

But there was little to no evidence to back up these outlandish and preposterous claims. The Grabgolds were a prestigious and powerful family. People tarnishing their good name tended to run a higher risk of getting their houses broken into, their properties ransacked, their loved ones kidnapped, theirs fields salted, and their workshops burned to the ground. Needless to say, the rumors eventually died down, along with the people too stubborn to let go of the past.

Part four: Education

As years went by, Rolande's vast count of brothers and sisters ran ever-higher. However, instead of mighty, pureblood dragons, his new siblings were crossbreeds. Humans, with slight draconic features. The man of the house did not them show the same kindness that he showed his new wife, and his older kids. Instead, he viewed them as the bastard children that they were. While Rolande was attending a fancy, dragon-exclusive school, his younger human brothers were sent to work at a few of the many operations his father ran, all across the human capital.

Grabgold Senior's appetite for locals was insatiable. During his human wife's lengthy pregnancies, he'd often visit local brothels. Heck, even when Rolande's step-mom was not waiting to give birth to a new half-breed child, his father would often go on late-night walks, only to return the morning after with lipstick smeared across his face. It's not like his wife cared too much. She was simply enjoying the luxuries that came with being married to a rich, hunky dragon, even if that meant near-constant pregnancy.

Rolande himself was a bit of an introvert. Too engrossed in books and studying to care much for his eccentric father's latest escapades. Unlike his draconic siblings, who were more than happy to coast along on daddy's impressive hoard of gold, he wanted to make something of himself. To branch away from the family, and start his own business. To become a man in his own right, instead of remaining nothing more than his father's son, for the rest of his life.

So, after finishing his lengthy and thorough education, Rolande gathered the courage to respectfully request a small loan from his father, so he could start his own enterprise. He feared the old man would get upset, that one of his good sons wanted to stray away from the family business. But, instead, Goldgrab Senior was more than understanding of his own son's plight. A long time ago, he, too, started out by asking his own father for some starting funds. In Rolande, he saw himself.

Part five: Branching off

The young entrepreneur was provided not only with a sizable capital, but also with a storefront, located at the busiest street in all of Varanar: the grand avenue. Stretching from the eastern city gate, all the way to the largest of the town squares, where the bi-weekly market took place, it was always jam-packed with tourists and merchants alike. The perfect place to set up shop.

Rolande made a few deals with local blacksmiths to procure weapons and pieces of armor at a discount. Not the best stuff, but it was in decent enough shape to be sold at a reasonable price. Negotiating with foreign trade caravans, he secured a line of exotic wares. A winery, owned by his father, could provide spirits for sale. Weak stuff, since real drinks were illegal to sell outside of taverns and inns. Finally, a trip to the hamlet just outside of the city walls, ensured that his store would never run dry of food to sell.

The young dragon was all set. But, he was about to discover that running a store in the busiest part of Varanar, especially as a dragon, was not as easy as he had hoped it would be. Competition was cut-throat, some of the locals lowering prices to unsustainable margins, in an effort to drive the newcomer out before he managed to properly establish himself. But, unbeknownst to Rolande, he had an ally in this unspoken war.

His father was closely monitoring his son's venture. He wanted to see the boy succeed, almost as much as Rolande wanted to make something of himself. So, without his son's knowing, he had a few stern talks with some of the suppliers of the other grand avenue stores. Grabgold Senior was a very persuasive man. Needless to say, their rates went up. Way up.

Part six: Blissful ignorance

With other stores failing to fill their racks, Rolande's business flourished. But, his father was nothing, if not a reasonable man. He did not want to see half the city go out of business. He merely wanted his son to have a fighting chance. So, Grabgold Senior became a middleman between suppliers, and stores. He bought good at the old, cheap rates, and sold them for just a little bit more than what they used to go for. This way, Rolande could undercut the competition, while he himself could earn a pretty penny or two.

Everybody won. Or, well, everyone except for the other stores, who were forced to raise their prices ever so slightly. But still, they were able to continue to operate, a fact they were grateful for. Grabgold Senior had saved them from certain doom. It was mutually understood, that the collective merchants of Varanar owed the old dragon a favor. And so, Rolande was invited into the merchants' guild, an elite group consisting of the owners of a select few establishments, vital to cultivating commerce in the city of Varanar.

The young dragon accepted his invitation with pride. He was still under the naive assumption that he had accomplished all of this by himself. He had wisely picked local tradesman to supply his store, instead of importing goods from elsewhere. That's why his stuff was unaffected by the price hike! Due to his clever business tactics, he was invited into the guild. None of the merchants had the heart to tell him the truth.

Part seven: Women and wine

With his store a roaring success, Rolande learned a lesson that he had only read about in history books: with wealth, comes decadence. A quick taste-test of the weak wine he sold, soon turned into a glass per day, which in turn became a bottle at dinner. While he was never much of a people person, the dragon began to join the other merchants on their routine bar-trips after guild meetings. The joys of life awakened something inside of him. Something that had been missing for all these years.

The same lust that made his father spend thousands of coins at brothels all throughout Varanar, was starting to emerge within Rolande. His loins burned with a desire that his own hands were no longer fit to sate. For the first time in his entire life, he felt the pleasures of a woman, at the most expensive whorehouse in town. He liked it. Loved it. He needed more.

Shopkeeper during the day, pent-up client during the night, Rolande was turning out to be just like his old man. While he had plenty of money to throw around, he preferred the middle-class brothels over the more luxurious ones. They employed humans, which the young dragon had grown a penchant for, fantasizing about his step-mother, blowing his load early if they let him call them mommy.

Part eight: Like the old days

Waiting until night-time was becoming a gargantuan task, Rolande's body like a raging furnace without a chimney. At the end of the working day, he was often ready to explode! The problem was only got worse as more and more time went by. As the dragon grew, so too did his libido.

He needed an outlet. Something to do during the day, that would relieve his built-up tension. During the dead of noon, rarely any customers would ever visit his store. There was a counter, between where he sat, and where the clients would enter the building. Slowly, an idea formed inside of Rolande's mind, but he was still too timid to put it into motion. And then, one day, when his need boiled over fully, he finally did it.

He jerked off behind the counter of his store, in the middle of the day. And it felt darn good. The risk, was more than worth the reward. No more being pent up for half of his shift. And with his improved mood, came more happy customers. Masturbating while on the job soon became a daily activity, much like his nightly brothel visits. But still, the dragon was not yet sated.

While blowing a load in the middle of the day took the edge off for a while, simply using his hands felt so outdated, now that Rolande had felt the pleasures of sex. But he couldn't just invite a random whore over during the day. The workers of the night were well-known throughout Varanar. It'd be social suicide to be caught fucking one away from the brothels!

Part nine: Who's the client?

But, being the smart dragon that he was, Rolande found a solution to the lack of things to fuck. After all, he had plenty of customers that would do anything for a discount. He targeted a few of his less-frequent clients, people he could stand to lose, without too much of an impact on the bottom line. Success and arousal both getting to his head, the once-introverted shopkeeper waited until it was just him, and whoever he was eyeing left in the store. Then, often with a touch of physical intimacy borderlining harassment, he plainly offered a discount, free goods, or cold, hard cash, in return for a quick fuck.

To the dragon's own surprise, it worked more often than not. Maidens lusting for his draconic body, housewives running low on funds, and kobolds who are glad to get paid for putting out, instead of simply being raped by the much larger lizard, they all accepted his advances, some more eager than others. The few hags that declined Rolande, were in the vast minority, and even then, most of them continued to visit his store regardless.

Yes, fooling around with his clients was a risky affair. More than once, someone walked in on the dragon, while he was entertaining one of his customers. But they could always play it off, as though Rolande was simply helping them to find an item, or if they'd dropped something and were picking up the pieces, together. The few times the interlopers were not convinced by the dragon's lies, he'd offer them coins, to purchase their silence. Money could fix a lot of problems, or so his father had taught him.

Few people wanted to see Rolande's shop, the cheapest one in the entire district, go out of business simply because the owner wanted to have some daytime fun. As months turned to years, the way he fooled around with his customers became somewhat of a public secret. Instead of ruining his reputation, the rumors served to draw an untapped market to the dragon's store: needy ladies, looking for groceries with a serving of hot dragon dick on the side. Of course, he didn't have the stamina to fuck all of them. But the obvious temptresses never failed to arouse him. And some of the smarter ladies even realized that, when they came at noon, Rolande was always in the mood.

Rolande

Part one: Dragons

Dragons. Dragons are a sophisticated, shrewd, noble, and fierce species. Descending from the massive ferals of old, they are the result of millennia of crossbreeding, leading to their kind becoming far more anthropomorphic in nature. Ever since they, as a species, formed their own language, the dragons have grown to become natural leaders, acting as ambassadors, diplomats and nobles all over the world. Through the ages, they have formed a massive empire in the east, spanning untold amounts of land, all ruled by the single most powerful person in the entire world: the legendary Dragon Emperor.

So large is the realm of dragons, that there is a remarkable difference between the east, and the west of the empire. In the east, where the emperor resides, the bureaucracy reigns supreme. Cities are structured and organized. The rule of the law is absolute. Honor and duty are valued above all. Heavily armored dragon knights ride their mighty steeds throughout the land, dispensing the will of the emperor, and upholding the law on his behalf.

The further away you stray from the east, the less honor-bound dragons you will find. The inhabitants of the western half of the empire, are more focused on personal wealth and prestige, than they are concerned about following laws, or being in the right. To the average dragon in the west, the ends justify the means. This has lead to draconids as a whole being perceived as greedy and self-centered by the outside world.

To the humans especially, dragons are seen as power hungry despots. An ever-present threat, permeating the upper ranks of their society, hoarding gold, spending it only to hire assassins to stab their would-be rivals in the back. Ironic, seeing as most historians would argue that the divide between the eastern and westerns halves of the dragon empire, came into being due to contact with the humans in the first place. The humans often refused to honor their side of bargains, contracts and trade deals, thus scamming their bureaucracy-bound clients out of a great deal of money, wares and even land. The once-naive dragons simply adapted to their environment, growing conniving enough to out-trick their treacherous trading partners.

Part two: The lesser evil

While the eastern dragon realms were confederating peacefully, the kingdoms in the west were too turbulent to unite. Frequent wars and rampant treachery kept the balance of power constantly fluctuating. The humans took advantage of the infighting, applying military pressure to the isolated draconic kings, forcing them to pay tribute, or face imminent retribution. Only the emperor himself had the means to stave off a fullblown human invasion. And so, one by one, the kings flocked to the banner of the growing empire of the east, relying on the mighty imperial army to dissuade any threats of force.

The kings maintained much of their autonomy, although the constant warring amongst one another was a thing of the past. The empire's expansion did not sit well with many human lords and rulers, fostering a discontent that would last throughout the ages, further degrading the already negative disposition towards draconids in the human kingdom. A lot of people, from commoners to noblemen, openly preach their hatred for dragonkind. But still, the pompous bastards are tolerated, mostly because they run a lot of businesses vital to the proper function of many major human cities and towns and hamlets alike.

Without dragons, there would be a massive void in the upper classes of society, one not so easily filled by the mostly unschooled work force of the humans. They are farmers and peasants, labourers and builders. While there are, of course, exceptions, the majority of humans prefer to follow, instead of lead. They work the fields and bake loaves of bread, but the land, the bakery, and the store where the bread is sold are all owned by dragons, who pay wages based on how well their employees perform. Natural born rulers. And with such inherent skill, comes a great deal of envy.

In more recent days, trouble brewing in the east has occupied most of the imperial army. If the humans were to strike now, they could undoubtedly overrun several of the smaller kingdoms of the west, before the emperor even has a chance to retaliate. However, such a strategic move can not be made without consulting the king. The king, who is currently on a crusade, in a land far, far away. His absence guarantees the dragons' safety. For so long as there is no king, there can be no war.

Part three: The family

But enough about history and politics. Rolande Grabgold is an anthropomorphic dragon shopkeeper, living in the beating heart of the human kingdom: Varanar. In his store, he sells everything from food to potions to armor and even weaponry. Despite the plummeting public opinion on dragons, he's managing to make ends meet and then some. If anything, the growing mutual hatred between the two largest groups in town is beneficial to his trade, concerned citizens on both sides of the fence stocking up on supplies, fearing the shortening fuse of the social powderkeg that is Varanar, will soon run out.

Rolande grew up in a big, mixed family of both humans and dragons. When he was only a few years old, his dragon-mother had an unfortunate run-in with a few hoodlums in the wrong part of town. She did not make it out alive. His exceptionally fertile and ever-lusty draconic father refused to let the incident keep him down for long. He was quick to remarry, betrothing a pretty young human girl, almost half his age. This did not sit well, with neither the draconic, nor the human communities. Rumors emerged, claiming they met in a brothel, and that Grabgold Senior himself had ordained his first wife's demise, so he could be together with his new, money-hungry fling.

But there was little to no evidence to back up these outlandish and preposterous claims. The Grabgolds were a prestigious and powerful family. People tarnishing their good name tended to run a higher risk of getting their houses broken into, their properties ransacked, their loved ones kidnapped, theirs fields salted, and their workshops burned to the ground. Needless to say, the rumors eventually died down, along with the people too stubborn to let go of the past.

Part four: Education

As years went by, Rolande's vast count of brothers and sisters ran ever-higher. However, instead of mighty, pureblood dragons, his new siblings were crossbreeds. Humans, with slight draconic features. The man of the house did not them show the same kindness that he showed his new wife, and his older kids. Instead, he viewed them as the bastard children that they were. While Rolande was attending a fancy, dragon-exclusive school, his younger human brothers were sent to work at a few of the many operations his father ran, all across the human capital.

Grabgold Senior's appetite for locals was insatiable. During his human wife's lengthy pregnancies, he'd often visit local brothels. Heck, even when Rolande's step-mom was not waiting to give birth to a new half-breed child, his father would often go on late-night walks, only to return the morning after with lipstick smeared across his face. It's not like his wife cared too much. She was simply enjoying the luxuries that came with being married to a rich, hunky dragon, even if that meant near-constant pregnancy.

Rolande himself was a bit of an introvert. Too engrossed in books and studying to care much for his eccentric father's latest escapades. Unlike his draconic siblings, who were more than happy to coast along on daddy's impressive hoard of gold, he wanted to make something of himself. To branch away from the family, and start his own business. To become a man in his own right, instead of remaining nothing more than his father's son, for the rest of his life.

So, after finishing his lengthy and thorough education, Rolande gathered the courage to respectfully request a small loan from his father, so he could start his own enterprise. He feared the old man would get upset, that one of his good sons wanted to stray away from the family business. But, instead, Goldgrab Senior was more than understanding of his own son's plight. A long time ago, he, too, started out by asking his own father for some starting funds. In Rolande, he saw himself.

Part five: Branching off

The young entrepreneur was provided not only with a sizable capital, but also with a storefront, located at the busiest street in all of Varanar: the grand avenue. Stretching from the eastern city gate, all the way to the largest of the town squares, where the bi-weekly market took place, it was always jam-packed with tourists and merchants alike. The perfect place to set up shop.

Rolande made a few deals with local blacksmiths to procure weapons and pieces of armor at a discount. Not the best stuff, but it was in decent enough shape to be sold at a reasonable price. Negotiating with foreign trade caravans, he secured a line of exotic wares. A winery, owned by his father, could provide spirits for sale. Weak stuff, since real drinks were illegal to sell outside of taverns and inns. Finally, a trip to the hamlet just outside of the city walls, ensured that his store would never run dry of food to sell.

The young dragon was all set. But, he was about to discover that running a store in the busiest part of Varanar, especially as a dragon, was not as easy as he had hoped it would be. Competition was cut-throat, some of the locals lowering prices to unsustainable margins, in an effort to drive the newcomer out before he managed to properly establish himself. But, unbeknownst to Rolande, he had an ally in this unspoken war.

His father was closely monitoring his son's venture. He wanted to see the boy succeed, almost as much as Rolande wanted to make something of himself. So, without his son's knowing, he had a few stern talks with some of the suppliers of the other grand avenue stores. Grabgold Senior was a very persuasive man. Needless to say, their rates went up. Way up.

Part six: Blissful ignorance

With other stores failing to fill their racks, Rolande's business flourished. But, his father was nothing, if not a reasonable man. He did not want to see half the city go out of business. He merely wanted his son to have a fighting chance. So, Grabgold Senior became a middleman between suppliers, and stores. He bought good at the old, cheap rates, and sold them for just a little bit more than what they used to go for. This way, Rolande could undercut the competition, while he himself could earn a pretty penny or two.

Everybody won. Or, well, everyone except for the other stores, who were forced to raise their prices ever so slightly. But still, they were able to continue to operate, a fact they were grateful for. Grabgold Senior had saved them from certain doom. It was mutually understood, that the collective merchants of Varanar owed the old dragon a favor. And so, Rolande was invited into the merchants' guild, an elite group consisting of the owners of a select few establishments, vital to cultivating commerce in the city of Varanar.

The young dragon accepted his invitation with pride. He was still under the naive assumption that he had accomplished all of this by himself. He had wisely picked local tradesman to supply his store, instead of importing goods from elsewhere. That's why his stuff was unaffected by the price hike! Due to his clever business tactics, he was invited into the guild. None of the merchants had the heart to tell him the truth.

Part seven: Wine

With his store a roaring success, Rolande learned a lesson that he had only read about in history books: with wealth, comes decadence. A quick taste-test of the weak wine he sold, soon turned into a glass per day, which in turn became a bottle at dinner. While he was never much of a people person, the dragon began to join the other merchants on their routine bar-trips after guild meetings. The joys of life awakened something inside of him. Something that had been missing for all these years.

Alas, the rest of this tale is too indecent to tell. To even insinuate that his son would, eventually, end up in several close relationships with his very customers, would be to risk the ire of Grabgold Senior. If you wish to hear the rest of Rolande's story, perhaps you should find a less reputable place for it to be shared. One with fewer prying eyes, where lewdities are commonplace.

Ruby

Part one: Kings and queens

Ruby is a chubby, red-scaled dragoness, a lady of blue blood who tries to live her life as a princess to the fullest. Currently staying in Varanar, the haughty young woman grew up in her family's palace, near the border town of Salamar, at the very edge of dragon-controlled territory. To the kobold, she can be a love interest, a blackmailing opportunity, a good friend, or a good fuck, if the two meet at all. Can love bloom in the squalor of the kobold district? Only time will tell.

The daughter of king Onyx, one of the prestigious rulers of the vast empire in the east, Ruby has never lifted a finger in her life. Ever since she was born, she's been surrounded by servants and slaves, maids and butlers, countless of nannies and teachers and bodyguards. While her older, blue-scaled sister, Saphira, was being trained and groomed into becoming the perfect successor to the throne, the youngest of the two princesses was mostly left to her own devices. She was permitted to wallow in decadent luxury while receiving a modest education in the form of boring, annoying scholarly babble, both endless and pointless, bothering her during saunas, massages, manicures and milk baths.

The unceasing tide of educators, hired by her father in the forlorn hope that at least some of their wisdom would get through to his airheaded second daughter, grew more and more irritating to deal with over the years. The teachers were frustrated that she wasn't learning a single thing. All she wanted, was to enjoy the magnificent way of life her parents so kindly provided. Why does a girl need to be smart, to be rich?

Growing into her teens, the young lady discovered a new way of dealing with the pestering tutors. Ignoring them didn't work, but she was a princess. She was in charge, and not them. All the growing dragoness had to do, was threaten to tell her father that they were doing a bad job, and they'd quickly back off, fearing the king would have their heads. She wasn't learning a single thing either way.

As Ruby's daily life returned to peace and quiet, Saphira was being subjected to various combat trials to harden and prepare her for life as a queen. None too dangerous, but her scales did end up with a few bruises every now and again. Alas, it was all for naught. Queen Diamonde, mother of the two whelplings had fallen pregnant once more. This time, she gave birth to a boy. And, regardless of Saphira's rigorous training, ancient laws dictated that he, the oldest son, would be the prince inheriting the realm.

Dubbed Emeraude for his pristinely green scales, none were pleased by the new heir's birth. The king was outraged. He'd spent years ensuring his favorite daughter would be prepared to rule, and now due to an unfortunate mishap in the bedroom, she would be denied her rightful place atop the throne. Worse yet, if the boy grew up into a younger, more athletic version of the aging dragon, then he might stake claim to the throne before his father even kicked the bucket.

Onyx couldn't let that happen. The boy was a threat. But he couldn't just kill his own son. That'd be a scandal the likes of which his reputation would never recover from. No, instead, he'd play his hand with a bit more tact. With the reluctant approval of Diamonde, the king put a small, yet steady flow of the feminizing fluid known as FemPlus into everything his son ate, drank, and bathed in. If he had three daughters, the eldest would rule.

Part two: Hormones and punishment

As she matured, strange feelings began to emerge in Saphira's mind. She grew interested in things she'd never really noticed before. Curvaceous hips, jiggling butts, alluring breasts, soft and gentle faces. Women. Why was she this way? It was unnatural, unbefitting of a princess. It was her duty to provide her bloodline with offspring, to ensure her family's succession even if her younger siblings failed to do the same. That's what her father had taught her, at least.

She didn't want to accept the fact, but the more time passed, the more she was sure of it. Saphira liked girls. Not men. She had these dreams that were unlike anything she'd ever felt before. Dreams about her womanly trainers, her mother, and even her little sister. She tried her hardest to repress her urges, but they wouldn't go away, no matter what. Over time, they only grew stronger, to the point where she could no longer hide her unusual interests.

Their mother caught the two princesses making out on the bed. Saphira wanted to experiment. Onyx was outraged. His perfect little girl, his diamond in the rough, born from Diamonde, his wife, turned out to be flawed. He couldn't take it. He sent his oldest daughter away, to Varanar, where she'd continue her training at the human court. And then, there was only Ruby left to see to.

The youngest of the two princesses had been caught off guard by her sister's advances. She didn't know how to feel about all of this. But her opinion was unnecessary. Her father wasn't going to let both of his daughters grow up to be this way. No more teachers, instructors or wise men. They had all failed. It was time for him to take matters into his own hands.

The very next night, Onyx threw his darling middle child onto the bed. With Diamonde there to comfort her, the big, hulking dragon took his own daughter's virginity. They fucked throughout the night, and while unwilling at first, Ruby learned to love her daddy. He'd set her straight still. The treatment continued, all night, every night, for the better half of a month. By the time Onyx was finished with her, the red-scaled princess was nothing more than a quivering mess of sexual fluids and desire. The treatment had worked. At least one of his daughters would end up fathering him a grandchild in the distant future.

The young dragoness hadn't only been turned straight. Those two weeks she spent confined to her parents' bedroom had changed the adolescent girl, in more ways than one. She grew addicted. Hooked. She craved for more. Day after day, she begged her father for one more time, and often he did relent. As far as Diamonde was concerned, this was all part of their daughter's training. In reality, Onyx enjoyed her more than he did his own wife. His little guilty pleasure.

But Ruby was about to learn one of life's most important lessons: nothing lasts forever. As her baby brother grew into a young man, a wicked thought emerged in the king's mind. The FemPlus, while clearly feminizing his son, wasn't enough to turn him into a girl outright. But there was one more trick up his sleeve. The same thing he did to Ruby. Maybe it'd work on Emeraude as well, with different results. Paying less and less attention to his youngest daughter, Onyx gradually began to train his son, putting the lithe heir through the same things that his older sister had been through, albeit spread across many years, instead of bundled into a couple of weeks.

Part three: Hatred and parties

Emeraude never really learned to love it like Ruby did. But she didn't know that. To her, it seemed like her brother was stealing her father away from her, much like he had stolen the throne from Saphira. Vengeful towards both of the men in her family, and still lusty due to the lack of her father's embrace, the princess took to town, and experienced one of the wildest nights of her life.

Half a barrel of beer, an entire tavern full of men, some less legal substances and over an entire day later, Ruby returned to the palace with her clothing ruined, her body dirtied, her loins, her butt and her mouth leaking liquids of varying viscosity, and all of her expensive jewelry traded for drugs, sex or booze. She was completely sated. Happy, high and drunk off her ass, she collapsed onto her bed and drifted asleep. Her parents were too busy fooling around with Emeraude to even notice she'd been away. Without their objection, the red-scaled dragoness woke up, redressed, grabbed a few bags of gold and some family heirlooms, and went out to town once more.

Several months, Ruby spent fucking, sucking, drinking and getting high off of various exotic substances. Everyone wanted a go at the princess. Everyone. It didn't take long for rumors to start spreading. Rumors of a lusty high-born slut that'd do anything that you requested, and if she got off to it, she'd even pay you for your services. For those taproom rumors to filter into the court, however, took a bit more time.

Eventually, the king caught wind of this fabled reverse-whore. When he found out it was Ruby, it was like the day he discovered her together with her sister all over again. Shouting, screaming, arguing, tears. She'd dealt considerable damage to Onyx' standing amongst the rest of the kings, a lot of his peers jumping on the scandal like a bunch of vultures and scavengers sensing weakness in their prey. Ultimately, the decision was made to send Ruby to Varanar, where she'd stay in the king's old mansion, away from her sister, and away from any taverns, at least until this entire thing blew over.

Part four: Humans and laws

The younger princess didn't see her exploits as such a big deal. She was having fun, and nothing more. In her mind, her father was just jealous. This entire thing was his fault to begin with, for neglecting her the way he did! And now, he sent her to simmer down in the capital of a race far beneath her own, knowing that she'd loathe to let a human touch her even when drunk. Truly, a fate worse than death.

Knowing her father was crazy enough to have spies posted all over the city, visiting a tavern was out of the question. The bi-weekly market sold nothing but weak wine, an edict forbidding the sale of liquor outside of bars and inns. With staff strictly instructed not to serve her drinks, and without friends to buy spirits for her, the dragoness was completely out of options when it came to getting drunk.

Hoping to ease her transition from drinking daily to quitting completely, Ruby sought out some of those exotic drugs that she'd grown keen on back home. She wasn't addicted, or so she vehemently claimed. But the laws in Varanar were a lot more strict than those in dragon-held Salamar. Recreational narcotics were far harder to come by, especially for an outsider like Ruby. Neither her stature as a princess, nor bountiful amounts of gold, not even offering her body helped her acquire the mind-numbing goods she so desired.

With no drugs, and no booze, the dragoness turned to men for comfort. Surely, being away from her father meant she could fuck whoever she wanted without any repercussions whatsoever, right? Well, she wasn't wrong. The problem, however, was finding someone to sleep with in the first place! Back home, a dozen or more draconic suitors were ready and waiting to make love to her at the drop of a hat, wherever she went. But in Varanar, due to a growing anti-dragon sentiment, and a bustling prostitution industry, many of the men she hit on either refused her outright, or thought she was some kind of whore trying to scam them out of their hard-earned money.

Growing desperate, Ruby eschewed her formerly reasonable standards. She wantonly offered herself to humans, elves, horses, foxes, dogs, wolves and a few less common species of all walks of life. Even then, pickings were exceedingly slim. Nobody wanted to risk the chance of her asking for an exuberant sum of money in the morning, in return for her services. No matter how much she claimed she was a rich princess, they weren't buying it. Eventually, after weeks of trying, she managed to get lucky once or twice, but not nearly often enough to sate her lust.

Part five: Insanity and food

Slowly but surely, the lack of sex was driving the princess insane. That is, until one day, she found the perfect substitute for all of her pleasures. Food. Delectable pastries, delicious meats, boiled potatoes, stew, soup, cake, pie, anything and everything she could cram down her maw. It all tasted so good! She didn't need sex or beer or drugs or a father who loved her for who she was. She had private cooks, and an entire city full of ingredients from all over the world to fill the void in her stomach!

Some of her servants claimed their liege had snapped, a sentiment which redoubled when she locked herself in the kitchen, and forced the chefs to work around the clock to produce each and every dish from a culinary book she'd bought off the marketplace. Taking a look in the mirror the next day, noticing her swelling belly, Ruby admitted to herself that she might have overdone it a little. But that didn't mean she was going to give up on eating as a passtime completely. All she needed, was a bit of restraint and moderation. Two things the dragoness never really had.

Thus began a vicious cycle. A downwards spiral of regret. To curb her new eating habits, the young lady went outside and tried to pick up men like she used to, in Salamar. Failing to attract a partner, she'd come home devastated, and eat her worries away. The more she ate, the less men wanted her, the more she'd eat. Some days ended in success, others in tears. Ruby simply couldn't comprehend why these filthy, savage humans didn't want her pristine, superior body. Sure, she might have been getting a little chubby, but her scaly frame was still leagues ahead of what human women had to offer.

Before long, rejection turned to bitterness, and anger. The princess stopped pretending to like, or even tolerate the presence of lesser species. She became mean, rude and dismissive of most people on the streets. And, to her confusion and surprise, this stereotypical draconic attitude lead to her getting more sex than anything else she'd tried thus far.

Some of the guys she met were wimps. Weaklings, who needed a strong woman to show them their place. To insult them, and degrade them while letting them pound her chubby body into the ground. People who'd never come home with her if she was nice to them. Others were alphas. Men with friends, who'd gang up on her when she insulted them. They'd surround her, threaten her, grope her, force her inside of a plebeian home and gangrape the shit out of her to show her her place. Little did they know that's exactly what she was after.

The dragoness pretended to hate it most of the time, but the truth of the matter was that by playing into the hand of the rising public disdain for dragons, she was having the most fun she'd had in months! Sure, it was kind of dangerous, actively trying to put herself in exploitable situations, not to mention provoking people she knew were bad news, but the risk only added to the thrill and the excitement, which made the fucking all the more pleasing.

Things were looking up for Ruby. While she was still a miserable wretch compared to how happy she was in her father's embrace, at least she'd found a way to get laid somewhat reliably. It wasn't a foolproof method by far, and she wasn't yet suicidal enough to attempt to get violated by an angry mob on a daily basis, but it was more than nothing. The crushingly depressive feeling of being unwanted by everyone, was somewhat alleviated. And that was all she ever wanted.

Part six: Check and mate

Thus we find ourselves in the present day and age. Unbeknownst to her, Ruby's sister, Saphira, is exiled from the Varanarian court, and the city as a whole. A political move made by the power-hungry baron. Too bad for him, the combat-trained dragoness manages to make it back to Salamar in one piece. Not unscathed, but alive and eager for revenge. A shame. He'd rather have seen that lousy, prude dyke dead. But not everything can go according to plan.

With Onyx and Diamonde away from home, the foolhardy princess gathers a contingent of knights, and rides back to the capital she was forcibly removed from, leaving a message for her parents. Poor Saphira, still trying so hard to prove herself. She wants to solve this dispute all on her own, and believes an impressive display of force will persuade the baron away from war. Foolish girl should have let her father handle the situation.

Concealed amongst the knights, we find the third of the dragon siblings. Emeraude. No longer able to stand the constant emasculation, he's running away from home. Cute, he dressed up like a warrior, his feminine frame only barely able to support the weight of the armor on his back. Pathetic. His fat sister, gobbling food and chasing cock all day long, would make for a better knight than he does.

As the group rides into town, the heir of the dragon border kingdom stealthily splits off from the convoy, and dismounts his horse in a nearby alleyway. He did it. He's finally free from his father's corrupting presence. But he's about to learn that the outside world isn't as nice as he hoped it would be. With his arrival, all the pieces are in place, and the game is set in motion.

Ruby

Part one: Kings and queens

Ruby is a chubby, red-scaled dragoness, a lady of blue blood who tries to live her life as a princess to the fullest. Currently staying in Varanar, the haughty young woman grew up in her family's palace, near the border town of Salamar, at the very edge of dragon-controlled territory. To the kobold, she can be a love interest, a blackmailing opportunity, or a good friend, if the two meet at all. Can love bloom in the squalor of the kobold district? Only time will tell.

The daughter of king Onyx, one of the prestigious rulers of the vast empire in the east, Ruby has never lifted a finger in her life. Ever since she was born, she's been surrounded by servants and slaves, maids and butlers, countless of nannies and teachers and bodyguards. While her older, blue-scaled sister, Saphira, was being trained and groomed into becoming the perfect successor to the throne, the youngest of the two princesses was mostly left to her own devices. She was permitted to wallow in decadent luxury while receiving a modest education in the form of boring, annoying scholarly babble, both endless and pointless, bothering her during saunas, massages, manicures and milk baths.

The unceasing tide of educators, hired by her father in the forlorn hope that at least some of their wisdom would get through to his airheaded second daughter, grew more and more irritating to deal with over the years. The teachers were frustrated that she wasn't learning a single thing. All she wanted, was to enjoy the magnificent way of life her parents so kindly provided. Why does a girl need to be smart, to be rich?

Growing into her teens, the young lady discovered a new way of dealing with the pestering tutors. Ignoring them didn't work, but she was a princess. She was in charge, and not them. All the growing dragoness had to do, was threaten to tell her father that they were doing a bad job, and they'd quickly back off, fearing the king would have their heads. She wasn't learning a single thing either way.

As Ruby's daily life returned to peace and quiet, Saphira was being subjected to various combat trials to harden and prepare her for life as a queen. None too dangerous, but her scales did end up with a few bruises every now and again. Alas, it was all for naught. Queen Diamonde, mother of the two whelplings had fallen pregnant once more. This time, she gave birth to a boy. And, regardless of Saphira's rigorous training, ancient laws dictated that he, the oldest son, would be the prince inheriting the realm.

Dubbed Emeraude for his pristinely green scales, none were pleased by the new heir's birth. The king was outraged. He'd spent years ensuring his favorite daughter would be prepared to rule, and now due to an unfortunate mishap in the bedroom, she would be denied her rightful place atop the throne. Worse yet, if the boy grew up into a younger, more athletic version of the aging dragon, then he might stake claim to the throne before his father even kicked the bucket.

Onyx couldn't let that happen. The boy was a threat. But he couldn't just kill his own son. That'd be a scandal the likes of which his reputation would never recover from. No, instead, he'd play his hand with a bit more tact. With the reluctant approval of Diamonde, the king put a small, yet steady flow of the feminizing fluid known as FemPlus into everything his son ate, drank, and bathed in. If he had three daughters, the eldest would rule.

Part two: Hormones and punishment

As she matured, strange feelings began to emerge in Saphira's mind. She grew interested in things she'd never really noticed before. Women, in particular. Why was she this way? It was unnatural, unbefitting of a princess. It was her duty to provide her bloodline with offspring, to ensure her family's succession even if her younger siblings failed to do the same. That's what her father had taught her, at least.

She didn't want to accept the fact, but the more time passed, the more she was sure of it. Saphira liked girls. Not men. She had these weird dreams that were unlike anything she'd ever felt before. She tried her hardest to repress her urges, but they wouldn't go away, no matter what. Over time, they only grew stronger, to the point where she could no longer hide her unusual interests.

Her father caught the confused girl stealing her mother's underwear. Saphira wanted to experiment. She confessed her attraction to her parents. Onyx was outraged. His perfect little girl, his diamond in the rough, born from Diamonde, his wife, turned out to be flawed. He couldn't take it. He sent his oldest daughter away, to Varanar, where she'd continue her training at the human court.

The youngest of the two princesses had been caught off guard by her sister's deviant interests. She didn't know how to feel about all of this. But her opinion was unnecessary. Her father wasn't going to let both of his daughters grow up to be this way. No more teachers, instructors or wise men. They had all failed. It was time for him to take matters into his own hands.

From that day onwards, Onyx spent every waking moment with his darling middle child. At first, she was weirded out by the sudden parental attention. But, as days passed by, Ruby found out that she enjoyed spending time with her wise and strong daddy. His stories made her laugh, she began to look forward to her daily piggyback rides, and she could no longer fall asleep without being read a bed-time story. With such tender, loving care, surely, she would end up fathering him a grandchild in the distant future.

But Ruby was about to learn one of life's most important lessons: nothing lasts forever. As her baby brother grew into a young man, a clever thought emerged in the king's mind. The FemPlus, while clearly feminizing his son, wasn't enough to turn him into a girl outright. He'd remain the heir to the throne, for the foreseeable future. But there was one more trick up Onyx' sleeve. The same thing he did to Ruby. Paying less and less attention to his youngest daughter, Onyx gradually began to coddle his son, growing closer and closer to the boy, to ensure he'd never want to get rid of his old man.

Part three: Hatred and parties

Emeraude never really learned to like spending time with his dad, like Ruby did. He never asked to be the center of attention. But she didn't know that. To her, it seemed like her brother was stealing her father away from her, much like he had stolen the throne from Saphira. Vengeful towards both of the men in her family, the princess set out to prove she could enjoy herself without either of them. She took to town, and experienced one of the wildest nights of her life.

Half a barrel of beer, four taverns, some less legal substances and over an entire day later, Ruby returned to the palace with her clothing ripped, her face dirtied, and all of her expensive jewelry traded for booze or drugs. She was completely sated. Happy, high and drunk off her ass, she collapsed onto her bed and drifted asleep. Her parents were too busy playing with Emeraude to even notice she'd been away. Without their objection, the red-scaled dragoness woke up, redressed, grabbed a few bags of gold and some family heirlooms, and went out to town once more.

Several months, Ruby spent drinking and getting high off of various exotic substances. Everyone wanted to party with the princess. Everyone. Mostly because she always footed the bill. It didn't take long for rumors to start spreading. Rumors that high-born life is so uninteresting, that royalty has to start mingling with commoners to have some fun. That a princess is acting like a delinquent. For those taproom rumors to filter into the court, however, took a bit more time.

Eventually, the king caught wind of this fabled noble drunk. When he found out it was Ruby, it was like the day he discovered her sister's a lesbian. Shouting, screaming, arguing, tears. She'd dealt considerable damage to Onyx' standing amongst the rest of the kings, a lot of his peers jumping on the scandal like a bunch of vultures and scavengers sensing weakness in their prey. Ultimately, the decision was made to send Ruby to Varanar, where she'd stay in the king's old mansion, away from her sister, and away from any taverns, at least until this entire thing blew over.

Part four: Humans and laws

The younger princess didn't see her exploits as such a big deal. She was having fun, and nothing more. In her mind, her father was just jealous. This entire thing was his fault to begin with, for neglecting her the way he did! And now, he sent her to simmer down in the capital of a race far beneath her own. Truly, a fate worse than death.

Knowing her father was crazy enough to have spies posted all over the city, visiting a tavern was out of the question. The bi-weekly market sold nothing but weak wine, an edict forbidding the sale of liquor outside of bars and inns. With staff strictly instructed not to serve her drinks, and without friends to buy spirits for her, the dragoness was completely out of options when it came to getting drunk.

Hoping to ease her transition from drinking daily to quitting completely, Ruby sought out some of those exotic drugs that she'd grown keen on back home. She wasn't addicted, or so she vehemently claimed. But the laws in Varanar were a lot more strict than those in dragon-held Salamar. Recreational narcotics were far harder to come by, especially for an outsider like Ruby. Neither her stature as a princess, nor the bountiful amounts of gold that she offered helped her acquire the mind-numbing goods she so desired.

With no drugs, and no booze, the dragoness turned to men for comfort. Surely, being away from her father meant she could sleep with whoever she wanted without any repercussions whatsoever, right? Well, she wasn't wrong. The problem, however, was finding someone willing to go to bed with in the first place! Back home, a dozen or more draconic suitors were ready and waiting to court her at the drop of a hat. But in Varanar, due to a growing anti-dragon sentiment, and a bustling prostitution industry, many of the men she hit on either thought she was trying to scam them out of their hard-earned money, or refused her outright. Another avenue of stress relief denied.

Part five: Insanity and food

Slowly but surely, the lack of entertainment was driving the princess insane. That is, until one day, she found the perfect substitute for all of her pleasures. Food. Delectable pastries, delicious meats, boiled potatoes, stew, soup, cake, pie, anything and everything she could cram down her maw. It all tasted so good! She didn't need beer or drugs or a father who loved her for who she was. She had private cooks, and an entire city full of ingredients from all over the world to fill the void in her stomach!

Some of her servants claimed their liege had snapped, a sentiment which redoubled when she locked herself in the kitchen, and forced the chefs to work around the clock to produce each and every dish from a culinary book she'd bought off the marketplace. Taking a look in the mirror the next day, noticing her swelling belly, Ruby admitted to herself that she might have overdone it a little. But that didn't mean she was going to give up on eating as a passtime completely. All she needed, was a bit of restraint and moderation. Two things the dragoness never really had.

Thus began a vicious cycle. A downwards spiral of regret. To curb her new eating habits, the young lady went outside and tried to score some dates. Failing to attract a partner, she'd come home devastated, and eat her worries away. The more she ate, the less men wanted her, the more she'd eat. Some days ended in success, others in tears. Ruby simply couldn't comprehend why these filthy, savage humans were passing by the opportunity to be with a dragoness like herself. Sure, she might have been getting a little chubby, but she was still a princess! That had to count for something, right?

Before long, rejection turned to bitterness, and anger. Ruby stopped pretending to like, or even tolerate the presence of lesser species. She became mean, rude and dismissive of most people on the streets. And, to her confusion and surprise, this stereotypical draconic attitude lead to her getting more dates than anything else she'd tried thus far.

Some of the guys she met were wimps. Weaklings, who needed a strong woman to show them their place. To insult them, and degrade them while letting them carry her groceries. People who'd never be interested in her if she was nice to them. Others were tough. Men who'd be mean right back to her, and then end the argument with a passionate bout of kissing. Equals attract just as much as opposites do.

Things were looking up for Ruby. While she was still a miserable wretch compared to how happy she was when playing with her father, at least she'd found a way to get some male company somewhat reliably. It wasn't a foolproof method by far, but it was more than nothing. The crushingly depressive feeling of being unwanted by everyone, was somewhat alleviated. And that was all she ever wanted.

Part six: Check and mate

Thus we find ourselves in the present day and age. Unbeknownst to her, Ruby's sister, Saphira, is exiled from the Varanarian court, and the city as a whole. A political move made by the power-hungry baron. Too bad for him, the combat-trained dragoness manages to make it back to Salamar in one piece. Not unscathed, but alive and eager for revenge. A shame. He'd rather have seen that lousy, prude whelpling dead. But not everything can go according to plan.

With Onyx and Diamonde away from home, the foolhardy princess gathers a contingent of knights, and rides back to the capital she was forcibly removed from, leaving a message for her parents. Poor Saphira, still trying so hard to prove herself. She wants to solve this dispute all on her own, and believes an impressive display of force will persuade the baron away from war. Foolish girl should have let her father handle the situation.

Concealed amongst the knights, we find the third of the dragon siblings. Emeraude. No longer able to stand constantly being the center of attention, he's running away from home. Cute, he dressed up like a warrior, his feminine frame only barely able to support the weight of the armor on his back. Pathetic. His fat sister, gobbling food all day long would make for a better knight than he does.

As the group rides into town, the heir of the dragon border kingdom stealthily splits off from the convoy, and dismounts his horse in a nearby alleyway. He did it. He's finally free from his father's overbearing presence. But he's about to learn that the outside world isn't as nice as he hoped it would be. With his arrival, all the pieces are in place, and the game is set in motion.

Saphira

Part one: The future queen

Lady Saphira is a princess of one of the many kingdoms that comprise the grand Dragon Empire. Expelled from the palace she grew up in by her father, the blue-scaled dragoness has spent a large part of her life in and around the Varanarian court. Despite her fortuitous upbringing, Saphira has had a hard life, filled with adversity, and challenges that she was never fully prepared to take on. Will her luck change, or is she doomed to be a slave to misfortune until the end of times?

King Onyx, and his wife Diamonde, were ecstatic when the queen gave birth to her first child. They named their baby daughter Saphira, matching the whelpling's azure-tinted scales. She was her father's pride and joy. An heir, to take over the kingdom, should he come to pass. The fruit of his loins. The culmination of his marriage. He took her everywhere he went. Showed her to every noble in the empire. She would be his heir. And nothing would get in the way of that.

A few years later, a second child was born. Saphira's little sister, Ruby. Of course, Onyx was proud that he'd sired another baby girl, but his first daughter remained his unspoken favorite. After all, it was the eldest of the two that would end up inheriting the kingdom. And, if she was to rule, she would have to be trained to act, to judge and to fight like a monarch.

While Ruby was still in her cradle, the exceedingly young Saphira was being taught how to behave like a proper lady. She was told how to eat, how to drink, how to walk and how to talk. Before she reached double digits in age, the queen-to-be was already the star of banquets and galas, some of which were held in her very honor. Her father introduced her to everyone important, from military men, to the greedy old bastard that kept track of the royal finances. Knowing who and who not to trust, was an invaluable skill for the future sovereign to learn.

Part two: Warrior woman

Years went by, and the heiress was growing up to be a proper lady. But knowing how to act at the dinner table alone, was not enough to make her a worthy queen. While her sister was learning math, she was to be taught how to fight. Her father had hired an old, retired general, to show her the ropes. A spirited, elderly man that had taught the king himself how to fight when he was little, and that had served in many'a military campaign under Onyx' rule. There was nobody in the realm, who knew more about war than he did. He would be the one to train Saphira.

In the city's old coliseum, she would be whipped into shape, by an old geezer from an era long gone, when things used to be different. When people were tough, punishments were handed out like candy, and physical abuse was the norm, instead of the exception. Yes, Onyx very well remembered the times he was viciously beaten by this savage of the battlefield. The pain made his hide tough and thick, the lust for revenge made his arms strong, and a few cheap shots reminded him to keep his guard up. So, too, would it be for his daughter.

But, unlike her father, Saphira had, thus far, been trained to be a lady. She'd been told by her mother, to never to raise her hand at another living being, not even a lowly kobold servant messing up her food. Up until now, getting her hands dirty, was out of the question. If she had any grievances to settle, the myriad of guards present at all times, would do it for her. But that was all about to change.

Part three: Knuckle sandwich

On the very first day of her combat-tutelage, the young girl felt something that she had been mostly spared of until then: pain. Her barbaric tutor showed her no mercy. She was brutally beaten, to within an inch of her life, while her bodyguards stood by and watched. They had strict instructions not to intervene. And, at the request of the old general himself, they would no longer accompany her after the first time. After all, what better way to test her newfound battle prowess, than by walking the streets by herself, and fending off any would-be assailant?

Saphira was sent home battered and bloodied, limping and barely able to see through her bruised eyes. When she arrived at the palace, collapsing in front of her parents, her mother was so shocked she nearly fainted! But her father laughed it off, fondly recalling the first time he himself came home from practice, oh-so long ago. It was the nature of the beast, something his once-again pregnant wife couldn't possibly understand. In order to get tough, you had to be beaten down. Again, and again, and again. So, it would be.

After an entire week of recovery, the blue-scaled princess was sent to be trained for the second time. Traumatized, she begged and pleaded for her father not to make her go, but it was of no use. His mind was set, and no one disobeyed the king, not even his own offspring. As Saphira walked down the lonely road towards the coliseum, she considered running away. Escaping. Ditching her family, her obligations, and her right of succession. But what would she do, on her own? How much did she really know about the world? Not enough. If any bandits crossed her path, she'd be dead before making it to the next town over. In a way, perhaps her dad was right. She did need to learn how to fight.

Despite the future queen's self-renewed ambition, that day, something that nobody could have predicted happened during training. You see, there were a few things that the king did not know about his old military friend. In his spare time, the ex-general was a deranged pervert, a sadist and a pederast, roaming from brothel to brothel, harassing girls and boys alike, beating whores to near-death, and using the near-infinite wealth of the royal treasury to cover up the aftermath of a good night out. On top of being a deviant, the old man also held the firm idea that women did not belong on the battlefield. Now, with the princess' bodyguards no longer present, he could show his true colors.

Part four: A sadist and his prey

Once again, Saphira was beaten to near death. But this time, instead of punching her gut, her trainer aimed his blows a little bit higher, striking her sensitive, vulnerable, budding chest, making her scream out in pain, as her developing breasts were stricken over and over again, until her blue scales turned purple and black. Keeping up appearances, he told her that he was merely teaching her about the fragility of the female frame. And so, the tutor left his apprentice, broken down and huddled up, crying on the ground. It wasn't come nightfall, that she managed to pick herself up enough, to crawl her way home.

She tried to tell her father what her mentor did to her, but it was of no use. The king himself received a few cheap shots when he was little. And by telling him about it, she had failed to learn the principle lesson: to harden, to suck it up, to tough it out. Life as a monarch wasn't all sunshine and rainbows. There would be tough days ahead of the princess. And unless she learned to cope with adversity now, she'd be stumped when the real deal happened to her.

Training continued on the third week. Her clothes were ripped. Torn off, and tossed to the side. After beating her to a pulp, the general crawled on top of her bleeding frame. He groped her body to his heart's content, claiming that even in the heat of battle, opposing warriors would not hesitate to abuse a pretty little thing like herself. After sating his lust, she was left alone, in tears again, made to crawl her way home, while indecent.

The lesson stuck. She was sickened. Mortified of what would happen, should she lose an actual fight. If her trainer was willing to go this far to prove a point, then what would a real opponent do? During the next lesson, he would show her.

And thus, the perfect princess' virginity was forcibly taken, in the hot and gritty sand covering the arena's floor. She was violated again, and again, and again. Made to do horrible things, services that not even the ladies at the brothel were willing to provide. To teach her humility, was her mentor's excuse. In reality, he viewed Saphira as just another victim. A more regal version of the streetgirls he was used to. And he had the king's very own permission, to do all he ever wanted to her.

It was only when his sadism was fully indulged, that the combat tutor left the coliseum, leaving the king's daughter for dead. Unable to get up or crawl away, the future queen spent the entirety of the cold, dark night, crying while curled up into a ball on the ground. She had been broken, both physically and mentally. Reduced, to the scared little girl that she was, deep down at her very core.

Part five: The future king

Come morningtime, Saphira finally found the energy to limp back home. She hadn't even been missed. Instead of worrying about her, the family stood huddled around the newly born dragon sibling. A boy, named Emeraude. Due to the right of primogeniture, this whelpling of a younger brother would end up claiming the throne, not the blue-scaled princess. And that meant, all of the training, all of the pain and suffering and humiliation and debasement that she had suffered, were all for naught. She would never be the queen.

In truth, this did not sit well with Onyx either. He had already made sure that one of one of his children was fit to succeed him, and he wasn't going to repeat the entire process because of a slight mishap in the bedroom. According to her combat instructor, Saphira was shaping up to be a fine young thing. The king could only imagine that meant her training was going well. If he knew what was really going on, he'd have put a stop to it long ago. Heck, he would have murdered the ex-general with his own two hands, if he knew of the foul deeds that were inflicted upon his daughter. But with his unwanted son taking up a lot of time, and ancient nostalgia clouding his mind, Onyx could not see what was happening to his little girl.

Despite her intense protests, Saphira's training continued for several more years. There wasn't even any point to it anymore, but her father insisted. It was a matter of pride, and camaraderie between the king and his old friend. She didn't dare bring up what had happened on the day of her brother's birth. She didn't want to seem weak in front of her father, not with Emeraude threatening to take her crown. Thus, the princess kept the worst of the abuse hidden from her family. She tidied up before going home. Wiped off the worst of the blood, and the other fluids. Kept up appearances, while her mentor became more cruel with every passing session.

Part six: Not a phase

Maturing into adolescence, weird feelings began to bubble up inside of Saphira's hormonal body. While she had been molested a countless number of times by her devious combat instructor, not once had she experienced desire or arousal. The cold and brutal rapes left her devoid of feeling anything but pain, regret and sorrow. But now, new sensations were starting to emerge. Lust flooded her body, as dirty thoughts occupied her mind. However, the weirdest thing about this all, was that it never happened mid-practice. It was at home, that the growing lady grew interested in sex.

Over the years, her mind had been warped. Twisted, by the constant abuse, the fact that her father turned a blind eye, and the loss of her future as a queen. These negative events all had one thing in common: men. Her trainer was a man, her negligent father was a man, and her brother was a young boy. As such, instead of growing a healthy appetite for the other sex, Saphira slowly came to terms with the fact that she liked girls.

She spied on her mother and sister bathing. She made servant-women strip for her, so she could explore every inch of their bodies, passing the act off as a routine hygiene inspection. She stole worn clothing from laundry-baskets, not to wear, but to indulge in the lingering feminine scent. Ultimately, her feelings of lust boiled over. She had to experiment. To at least feel what it was like, to be in the company of another woman, before having to face her rapist of a mentor yet again.

The evening before her next training session, Saphira coaxed Ruby into a little bit of fooling around. The two girls sat on the bed, staring at one another. A bit of awkward touching ensued. Then, the older of the two dragonesses leaned in for a kiss. As soon as their muzzles pressed against one another, the bedroom door swung wide open. In walked their mother, a shocked expression rapidly forming on her face.

Part seven: Separation

Saphira rightfully took the blame. It was her idea, and no matter how stupid it was, it felt right to her. On top of admitting that she was responsible for what had happened, the lesbian lizard came out of the closet, and told her parents that she wasn't interested in boys. At all. She preferred the company of women. They insisted that it was just a phase, that she'd get over it and grow up to be normal, like her mother. But the princess knew, that her attraction to other ladies wasn't a temporary thing. If she wasn't absolutely certain about it, she would have never confessed.

That night, a lot of screaming and arguing and yelling and crying resounded well beyond the palace walls. Onyx could hardly believe it. On top of the right of succession being stolen from his perfect little daughter, she turned out to be a lesbian as well?! What kind of queen refuses to provide offspring to continue the bloodline? Where did it all go so wrong? Did he not shower her with love and affection? Did he not provide her with the best training money could buy? Of course he did.

If word got out, Onyx' prestigious family would become a laughing stock in all of the Dragon Empire. He couldn't let that happen. With a heavy heart, after much internal debate, he decided to send his daughter away, to resume her education at the royal court of Varanar, where she could get a taste of some real diplomacy, while this silly lesbian thing slowly burned out. While the family got some much-needed rest, their servants packed Saphira's bags. The very next day, she was sent away to Varanar, with a convoy of knights to ensure her safe travels. His other daughter, the king would deal with himself.

While the blue-scaled dragoness was, at first, less than enthusiastic about moving to Varanar, the big city still managed to captivate her young mind. It seemed like a place of limitless possibilities, with untold potential for a vibrant royal lady. But alas, she was not to live in the city itself. Her father would not allow her the freedom to explore her urges. Instead, she was taken to the keep, where she was assigned a room to stay at.

Part eight: Fresh hell

The knights went home, their duties taken over by the human castle guards. The princess was not to leave the keep, under any circumstances. Fancy food was freely provided upon request, and she could wander around to her heart's content, all the way from the expansive courtyard, up to the highest tower of the battlements. At Onyx' request, she was allowed to partake in local diplomatic discourse. It was during her first meeting with the Varanarian court, that Saphira discovered that human politics were a lot more under the table than draconic affairs.

Literally. The wealthy men in charge of running one of the greatest cities in the world, were every bit as perverted and cruel, as her combat trainer was before them. Unfortunately for her, Saphira had arrived amidst a resurgence of anti-dragon sentiment in the human kingdom, shared unanimously by people in high places. One bad word out of her mouth, one objection, one notion that maybe there was a better way to resolve the dispute they were discussing, was enough to get them to lash out at the dragoness.

She was forced to her knees, and made to apologize for her transgression. In front of the entire collective of rulers, she was abused well beyond the point of tears. Once her dress was torn, her muzzle had tasted human seed, and about half of the men present had each humiliated her in their own way, she was sent back to her room. Somehow, she had managed to stumble from one hell into another. And this time, there was no family to go home to, no shoulder to cry on. It was just her, all alone in a cold room, in a strange land.

The next day, Saphira was dragged to yet another meeting by the guards. After all, her father wanted them to ensure her education would go well. Like a fancy new toy, everyone wanted to get their hands on the dragoness. Even if she remained quiet on the most controversial of subjects, they would demand her opinion. For the slightest of missteps, the princess was heavily punished, forced to do unspeakable things while begging for forgiveness, all the while the rest of the wicked humans laughed at her debasement. This, according to them, was how all dragonkind should be treated.

Part nine: The baron of Varanar

A week later, after the princess accidentally insinuated that perhaps goblins should not be levied into the Varanarian militia, the mood of the room suddenly turned grim. A heavily scarred man, which she would later come to know as the baron of Varanar, got off his throne-like seat, and walked up behind the dragoness. She was pulled from her chair, forcibly bent over the meeting table, her head all but slamming into the wooden surface.

How dare a dumb whelpling like her pretend she knows what's best for the human army?! Her robe was violently torn off, ripped to shreds. She was probably a spy, sent to weaken their military! Her underwear suffered the same fate. He unbuckled his pants. She was violated, right there and then, the table rocking back and forth ever so slightly with every thrust, the other nobles openly encouraging their liege, while her pained cries for help and for mercy, were left unanswered.

For the remainder of the afternoon, the men each took turns, sating their lust on the guest of honor's body. Once the last of them had finished up, the meeting was adjourned. Saphira was taken back to her room, and forced to bathe in the presence of the guards. At least they didn't take advantage of her. Not yet, anyway.

Weeks passed. Daily abuse had become the norm for the dragoness. During meetings of the court, she was often the center of attention. The sparse few times that the humans actually discussed what they were supposed to be ruling upon, one or two of the less-interested nobles always saw fit to occupy themselves with Saphira instead. Every day brought new methods of degradation. The humans were far more imaginative than her fighting instructor ever was.

Part ten: Nowhere is safe

After a few months of life in pseudo-captivity, even the guards began to take advantage of their unwilling guest. They wantonly groped her body while escorting her, openly masturbated to the sight of her changing, forced themselves upon her as she was bathing, and made sure that whatever food or drink she received, there was always a bit of special sauce mixed in.

Even outside of the various meetings and discussions, some of the more insistent human nobles found their way to the lady's bedroom. The guards, of course, let them in. None of them left before they'd gotten exactly what they wanted from the dragoness, regardless of whether it was the middle of the night, early in the morning, in the afternoon, whether she was eating her cum-covered meals, or writing desperate letters to her father, that would never actually be sent. Even select groups of foreign envoys, of realms far away, were not opposed to the idea of having a royal dragoness at their disposal.

Life, for Saphira, turned into a blurry series of unpleasant encounters, one fading into the other. Her tutelage went on for multiple years, the baron occasionally reporting to her father that everything was going just fine. Onyx had no reason to distrust the humans. He didn't know about the rampant hatred for dragons, that had spread through the upper ranks of their kingdom. It was a secret hidden in plain sight, obvious to all but the dragons themselves. Thinking his firstborn child was in capable hands, the dragon king sent his second daughter to live in Varanar as well. But, to keep them separated, Ruby would stay at a mansion in the city itself, instead of at the keep. A kinder fate, than what Saphira was going through.

Part eleven: Losing hope

In an attempt to keep her sanity, the imprisoned lady turned to practicing the few useful moves she'd learned during combat training. Propping her soiled bed-mattress against the wall, she beat it like a punching bag, venting frustration until her arms grew weak. This was how she spent most of her free time: improving her physique, like a proper prisoner would. Breaking out of the keep was out of the question, but this way, she could at least stand a chance at fending off some of the more repugnant humans that found their way to her bedroom.

Alas, the guards were always but a shout away. While one man she could handle, three were too many. And the extra visitors would often end up joining in on the fun. In the end, Saphira learned that compliance made them go easier on her. But even then, she kept her wits about her, looking for any opportunity to escape her assailants' clutches. It's not like any of them would admit to getting their ass handed to them by a dragoness. All she had to do, was make sure they couldn't scream for help.

The dragoness' uppity behavior did little to improve the struggling relationship between the human nobles, and the draconic upper class. If anything, each man she prevented from having their way with her, became more in favor of the baron's radical proposals for bloodshed and war. Preparations were almost complete. The powderkeg had been prepared. Now all that was left to do, was light the fuse, and spark a change that would impact the world for generations to come.

Part twelve: Freedom

And what better way to start a revolution, than by exiling a princess-guest, parading her down the main street of the human capital, before crudely kicking her out from the confines of the city walls? Surely, news would reach the dragon king before long, that his daughter was left on her own, in the lawless outskirts of the human capital. If that did not entice him to retaliate, then nothing would. And if she died on her way back home? All the better.

But Saphira didn't die. A lifetime of hardship had left her tough, and resilient. She did have a few unpleasant encounters before reaching the safe confines of Salamar, the town she grew up in. But despite being a bit worse for wear, she made it there alive. However, her parents were nowhere to be found. They had been invited to the court of another lord, and it would be at least another day before they were expected to return.

Instead of waiting for her elders to bring retribution upon the humans, the brash princess decided that this would be a perfect opportunity to show her father how strong and capable she had become, while at the same time enacting revenge upon those that had wronged her. Leaving a note for her parents, she gathered a few knights, the best men the garrison had to offer. Dressed in full combat attire, riding barded warhorses, they set off for Varanar, intent on taking the throne room, and wrestling control away from the miscreants in charge.

Amongst those knights, hid a single, green-scaled boy in disguise, desperate to get away from his royal family. Before the detachment reached the keep, he broke formation, and slipped away into the city. With all three of the dragon siblings having found their way to the capital once more, the human revolution was about to get a whole lot more interesting.

Saphira

Part one: The future queen

Lady Saphira is a princess of one of the many kingdoms that comprise the grand Dragon Empire. Expelled from the palace she grew up in by her father, the blue-scaled dragoness has spent a large part of her life in and around the Varanarian court. Despite her fortuitous upbringing, Saphira has had a hard life, filled with adversity, and challenges that she was never fully prepared to take on. Will her luck change, or is she doomed to be a slave to misfortune until the end of times?

King Onyx, and his wife Diamonde, were ecstatic when the queen gave birth to her first child. They named their baby daughter Saphira, matching the whelpling's azure-tinted scales. She was her father's pride and joy. An heir, to take over the kingdom, should he come to pass. The fruit of his loins. The culmination of his marriage. He took her everywhere he went. Showed her to every noble in the empire. She would be his heir. And nothing would get in the way of that.

A few years later, a second child was born. Saphira's little sister, Ruby. Of course, Onyx was proud that he'd sired another baby girl, but his first daughter remained his unspoken favorite. After all, it was the eldest of the two that would end up inheriting the kingdom. And, if she was to rule, she would have to be trained to act, to judge and to fight like a monarch.

While Ruby was still in her cradle, the exceedingly young Saphira was being taught how to behave like a proper lady. She was told how to eat, how to drink, how to walk and how to talk. Before she reached double digits in age, the queen-to-be was already the star of banquets and galas, some of which were held in her very honor. Her father introduced her to everyone important, from military men, to the greedy old bastard that kept track of the royal finances. Knowing who and who not to trust, was an invaluable skill for the future sovereign to learn.

Part two: Warrior woman

Years went by, and the heiress was growing up to be a proper lady. But knowing how to act at the dinner table alone, was not enough to make her a worthy queen. While her sister was learning math, she was to be taught how to fight. Her father had hired an old, retired general, to show her the ropes. A spirited, elderly man that had taught the king himself how to fight when he was little, and that had served in many'a military campaign under Onyx' rule. There was nobody in the realm, who knew more about war than he did. He would be the one to train Saphira.

In the city's old coliseum, she would be whipped into shape, by an old geezer from an era long gone, when things used to be different. When people were tough, punishments were handed out like candy, and physical abuse was the norm, instead of the exception. Yes, Onyx very well remembered the times he was viciously beaten by this savage of the battlefield. The pain made his hide tough and thick, the lust for revenge made his arms strong, and a few cheap shots reminded him to keep his guard up. So, too, would it be for his daughter.

But, unlike her father, Saphira had, thus far, been trained to be a lady. She'd been told by her mother, to never to raise her hand at another living being, not even a lowly kobold servant messing up her food. Up until now, getting her hands dirty, was out of the question. If she had any grievances to settle, the myriad of guards present at all times, would do it for her. But that was all about to change.

Part three: Knuckle sandwich

On the very first day of her combat-tutelage, the young girl felt something that she had been mostly spared of until then: pain. Her barbaric tutor showed her no mercy. She was brutally beaten, to within an inch of her life, while her bodyguards stood by and watched. They had strict instructions not to intervene. And, at the request of the old general himself, they would no longer accompany her after the first time. After all, what better way to test her newfound battle prowess, than by walking the streets by herself, and fending off any would-be assailant?

Saphira was sent home battered and bloodied, limping and barely able to see through her bruised eyes. When she arrived at the palace, collapsing in front of her parents, her mother was so shocked she nearly fainted! But her father laughed it off, fondly recalling the first time he himself came home from practice, oh-so long ago. It was the nature of the beast, something his once-again pregnant wife couldn't possibly understand. In order to get tough, you had to be beaten down. Again, and again, and again. So, it would be.

After an entire week of recovery, the blue-scaled princess was sent to be trained for the second time. Traumatized, she begged and pleaded for her father not to make her go, but it was of no use. His mind was set, and no one disobeyed the king, not even his own offspring. As Saphira walked down the lonely road towards the coliseum, she considered running away. Escaping. Ditching her family, her obligations, and her right of succession. But what would she do, on her own? How much did she really know about the world? Not enough. If any bandits crossed her path, she'd be dead before making it to the next town over. In a way, perhaps her dad was right. She did need to learn how to fight.

Despite the future queen's self-renewed ambition, that day, something that nobody could have predicted happened during training. You see, there were a few things that the king did not know about his old military friend. In his spare time, the ex-general was a deranged sadist, getting into street-fights so he could beat his opponents to near-death. On top of being overly bloodthirsty, the old man also held the firm idea that women did not belong on the battlefield. Now, with the princess' bodyguards no longer present, he could show his true colors.

Part four: A sadist and his prey

Once again, Saphira was beaten to near death. Her trainer did not stop hitting her, no matter how much she screamed out in pain, her developing body being stricken over and over again, until her blue scales turned purple and black. Keeping up appearances, he told her that he was merely teaching her about the fragility of the female frame. And so, the tutor left his apprentice, broken down and huddled up, crying on the ground. It wasn't come nightfall, that she managed to pick herself up enough, to crawl her way home.

She tried to tell her father what her mentor did to her, but it was of no use. The king himself was thoroughly beaten when he was little. And by telling him about it, she had failed to learn the principle lesson: to harden, to suck it up, to tough it out. Life as a monarch wasn't all sunshine and rainbows. There would be tough days ahead of the princess. And unless she learned to cope with adversity now, she'd be stumped when the real deal happened to her.

Training continued on the third week. Her clothes were inadvertently torn. Covering herself up, her lack of defence allowed the general to beat her to a pulp. He claimed that in the heat of battle, opposing warriors would not hesitate to take advantage of her, in any way they could. That included ripping her clothes, or using her fancy robe to tug her closer. And if they won? They could do far worse things, than offer a hand to get her back on her feet. After his lecture, she was left alone, in tears again, made to crawl her way home, while half-indecent.

The lesson stuck. She was sickened. Mortified of what would happen, should she lose an actual fight. If her trainer was willing to go this far to prove a point, then what would a real opponent do? During the next lesson, he would show her.

And thus, the perfect princess broke her first bone, crumbling to the hot and gritty sand covering the arena's floor. Even when downed, she was kicked again, and again, and again. To teach her defeat, was her mentor's excuse. In reality, he viewed Saphira as just another victim. A more regal version of the streetfights he was used to. And he had the king's very own permission, to do all he ever wanted to her.

It was only when his sadism was fully indulged, that the combat tutor left the coliseum, leaving the king's daughter for dead. Unable to get up or crawl away, the future queen spent the entirety of the cold, dark night, crying while curled up into a ball on the ground. She had been broken, both physically and mentally. Reduced, to the scared little girl that she was, deep down at her very core.

Part five: The future king

Come morningtime, Saphira finally found the energy to limp back home. She hadn't even been missed. Instead of worrying about her, the family stood huddled around the newly born dragon sibling. A boy, named Emeraude. Due to the right of primogeniture, this whelpling of a younger brother would end up claiming the throne, not the blue-scaled princess. And that meant, all of the training, all of the pain and suffering and humiliation and debasement that she had suffered, were all for naught. She would never be the queen.

In truth, this did not sit well with Onyx either. He had already made sure that one of one of his children was fit to succeed him, and he wasn't going to repeat the entire process because of a slight mishap in the bedroom. According to her combat instructor, Saphira was shaping up to be a fine punching bag. The king could only imagine that meant her training was going well. If he knew what was really going on, he'd have put a stop to it long ago. Heck, he would have murdered the ex-general with his own two hands, if he knew of the excessive violence that had been inflicted upon his daughter. But with his unwanted son taking up a lot of time, and ancient nostalgia clouding his mind, Onyx could not see what was happening to his little girl.

Despite her intense protests, Saphira's training continued for several more years. There wasn't even any point to it anymore, but her father insisted. It was a matter of pride, and camaraderie between the king and his old friend. She didn't dare bring up what had happened on the day of her brother's birth. She didn't want to seem weak in front of her father, not with Emeraude threatening to take her crown. Thus, the princess kept the worst of the abuse hidden from her family. She tidied up before going home. Wiped off the worst of the blood, popped bones back into place. Kept up appearances, while her mentor became more cruel with every passing session.

Part six: Not a phase

Maturing into adolescence, weird feelings began to bubble up inside of Saphira's hormonal body. New sensations were starting to emerge. Lust flooded her body, as dirty thoughts occupied her mind. However, the weirdest thing about this all, was that it never happened mid-practice. It was at home, that the growing lady grew interested in more adult things.

Over the years, her mind had been warped. Twisted, by the constant abuse, the fact that her father turned a blind eye, and the loss of her future as a queen. These negative events all had one thing in common: men. Her trainer was a man, her negligent father was a man, and her brother was a young boy. As such, instead of growing a healthy appetite for the other sex, Saphira slowly came to terms with the fact that she liked girls.

She spied on her mother and sister bathing, lustfully watched servant-women get dressed, and stole worn clothing from laundry-baskets, not to wear, but to indulge in the lingering feminine scent. Ultimately, her father caught her red-handed, with a pair of her mother's underwear in her hands.

Part seven: Separation

Saphira had no excuses. No matter how stupid it what she was doing was, it felt right to her. The lesbian lizard came out of the closet, and told her parents that she wasn't interested in boys. At all. She preferred the company of women. They insisted that it was just a phase, that she'd get over it and grow up to be normal, like her mother. But the princess knew, that her attraction to other ladies wasn't a temporary thing. If she wasn't absolutely certain about it, she would have never confessed.

That night, a lot of screaming and arguing and yelling and crying resounded well beyond the palace walls. Onyx could hardly believe it. On top of the right of succession being stolen from his perfect little daughter, she turned out to be a lesbian as well?! What kind of queen refuses to provide offspring to continue the bloodline? Where did it all go so wrong? Did he not shower her with love and affection? Did he not provide her with the best training money could buy? Of course he did.

If word got out, Onyx' prestigious family would become a laughing stock in all of the Dragon Empire. He couldn't let that happen. With a heavy heart, after much internal debate, he decided to send his daughter away, to resume her education at the royal court of Varanar, where she could get a taste of some real diplomacy, while this silly lesbian thing slowly burned out. While the family got some much-needed rest, their servants packed Saphira's bags. The very next day, she was sent away to Varanar, with a convoy of knights to ensure her safe travels. His other daughter, the king would deal with himself.

While the blue-scaled dragoness was, at first, less than enthusiastic about moving to Varanar, the big city still managed to captivate her young mind. It seemed like a place of limitless possibilities, with untold potential for a vibrant royal lady. But alas, she was not to live in the city itself. Her father would not allow her the freedom to explore her urges. Instead, she was taken to the keep, where she was assigned a room to stay at.

Part eight: Fresh hell

The knights went home, their duties taken over by the human castle guards. The princess was not to leave the keep, under any circumstances. Fancy food was freely provided upon request, and she could wander around to her heart's content, all the way from the expansive courtyard, up to the highest tower of the battlements. At Onyx' request, she was allowed to partake in local diplomatic discourse. It was during her first meeting with the Varanarian court, that Saphira discovered that human politics were a lot more under the table than draconic affairs.

The wealthy men in charge of running one of the greatest cities in the world, were every bit as sadistic and cruel, as her combat trainer was before them. Unfortunately for her, Saphira had arrived amidst a resurgence of anti-dragon sentiment in the human kingdom, shared unanimously by people in high places. One bad word out of her mouth, one objection, one notion that maybe there was a better way to resolve the dispute they were discussing, was enough to get them to lash out at the dragoness.

She was harshly slapped, forced to her knees, and made to apologize for her transgression. In front of the entire collective of rulers, she was abused well beyond the point of tears. Once her dress was torn, her muzzle was bleeding, and about half of the men present had each made her beg them to stop, she was sent back to her room. Somehow, she had managed to stumble from one hell into another. And this time, there was no family to go home to, no shoulder to cry on. It was just her, all alone in a cold room, in a strange land.

The next day, Saphira was dragged to yet another meeting by the guards. After all, her father wanted them to ensure her education would go well. Like a fancy new toy, everyone wanted to get their hands on the dragoness. Or, to be more precise: their fists. Even if she remained quiet on the most controversial of subjects, they would demand her opinion. For the slightest of missteps, the princess was heavily punished, crudely beaten and kicked, while begging for forgiveness, all the while the rest of the wicked humans laughed at her debasement. This, according to them, was how all dragonkind should be treated.

Part nine: The baron of Varanar

A week later, after the princess accidentally insinuated that perhaps goblins should not be levied into the Varanarian militia, the mood of the room suddenly turned grim. A heavily scarred man, which she would later come to know as the baron of Varanar, got off his throne-like seat, and walked up behind the dragoness. She was pulled from her chair, and thrown to the cold, hard floor.

How dare a dumb whelpling like her pretend she knows what's best for the human army?! Saphira was kicked in the side, her ribs only barely remaining intact. She was probably a spy, sent to weaken their military! He stomped on her abdomen, with his heavy boot, before unbuckling his pants. With his belt, the baron viciously lashed her over and over again, the other nobles openly encouraging their liege, while her pained cries for help and for mercy, were left unanswered.

For the remainder of the afternoon, the men each took turns abusing their guest, venting rage on her battered body. Once the last of them had bloodied his knuckles, the meeting was adjourned. Saphira was taken back to her room, tossed in a bathtub to clean her wounds, then wrapped up in bandages, and left to heal.

Weeks passed. Daily abuse became the norm for the dragoness. During meetings of the court, she was often the center of attention. The sparse few times that the humans actually discussed what they were supposed to be ruling upon, one or two of the less-interested nobles always saw fit to occupy themselves with Saphira instead. Every day brought new methods of torture. The humans were far more imaginative than her fighting instructor ever was.

Part ten: Nowhere is safe

After a few months of life in pseudo-captivity, some of the more insistent human nobles found their way to the lady's bedroom, to abuse her even outside of the various meetings and discussions. The guards, of course, let them in. None of them left before they'd made the dragoness scream out in pain, regardless of whether it was the middle of the night, early in the morning, in the afternoon, whether she was eating a meal, or writing desperate letters to her father, that would never actually be sent. Even select groups of foreign envoys, of realms far away, were not opposed to the idea of having a royal dragoness as their punching bag.

Life, for Saphira, turned into a blurry series of unpleasant encounters, one fading into the other. Her tutelage went on for multiple years, the baron occasionally reporting to her father that everything was going just fine. Onyx had no reason to distrust the humans. He didn't know about the rampant hatred for dragons, that had spread through the upper ranks of their kingdom. It was a secret hidden in plain sight, obvious to all but the dragons themselves. Thinking his firstborn child was in capable hands, the dragon king sent his second daughter to live in Varanar as well. But, to keep them separated, Ruby would stay at a mansion in the city itself, instead of at the keep. A kinder fate, than what Saphira was going through.

Part eleven: Losing hope

In an attempt to keep her sanity, the imprisoned lady turned to practicing the few useful moves she'd learned during combat training. Propping her bed-mattress against the wall, she beat it like a punching bag, venting frustration until her arms grew weak. This was how she spent most of her free time: improving her physique, like a proper prisoner would. Breaking out of the keep was out of the question, but this way, she could at least stand a chance at fending off some of the more violent humans that found their way to her bedroom.

Alas, the guards were always but a shout away. While one man she could handle, three were too many. And the extra visitors would often end up joining in on the fun. In the end, Saphira learned that compliance made them go easier on her. But even then, she kept her wits about her, looking for any opportunity to escape her assailants' clutches. It's not like any of them would admit to getting their ass handed to them by a dragoness. All she had to do, was make sure they couldn't scream for help.

The dragoness' uppity behavior did little to improve the struggling relationship between the human nobles, and the draconic upper class. If anything, each man she prevented from beating her up, became more in favor of the baron's radical proposals for bloodshed and war. Preparations were almost complete. The powderkeg had been prepared. Now all that was left to do, was light the fuse, and spark a change that would impact the world for generations to come.

Part twelve: Freedom

And what better way to start a revolution, than by exiling a princess-guest, parading her down the main street of the human capital, before crudely kicking her out from the confines of the city walls? Surely, news would reach the dragon king before long, that his daughter was left on her own, in the lawless outskirts of the human capital. If that did not entice him to retaliate, then nothing would. And if she died on her way back home? All the better.

But Saphira didn't die. A lifetime of hardship had left her tough, and resilient. She did have a few unpleasant encounters before reaching the safe confines of Salamar, the town she grew up in. But despite being a bit worse for wear, she made it there alive. However, her parents were nowhere to be found. They had been invited to the court of another lord, and it would be at least another day before they were expected to return.

Instead of waiting for her elders to bring retribution upon the humans, the brash princess decided that this would be a perfect opportunity to show her father how strong and capable she had become, while at the same time enacting revenge upon those that had wronged her. Leaving a note for her parents, she gathered a few knights, the best men the garrison had to offer. Dressed in full combat attire, riding barded warhorses, they set off for Varanar, intent on taking the throne room, and wrestling control away from the miscreants in charge.

Amongst those knights, hid a single, green-scaled boy in disguise, desperate to get away from his royal family. Before the detachment reached the keep, he broke formation, and slipped away into the city. With all three of the dragon siblings having found their way to the capital once more, the human revolution was about to get a whole lot more interesting.

Seki

Seki is an old cuntboy owl, one of the only friends the kobold has in the world. He grew up in the eastern dragon kingdoms, far away from Varanar and the hamlet where he resides nowadays. Even when young, the avian was particularly desired by a group of dragons with peculiar tastes. His exotic body was a dream come true for the decadent, deviant draconic patrons of brothels and bordellos. The perfect blend between masculine and feminine features. Needless to say, even before he came of age, Seki was a whore.

A good one, too. None of his clients were left unsated by the end of the night. His vigour, lust and the unique combination of a boy-like feathery body and a cunt between his legs, made him an escort without equal. Over the years, his fame as a prostitute and a catamite grew. He slept with dukes and knights, clerics and soldiers, farmers and merchants. Everyone who could afford his rising prices got a shot at the well-known cuntboy-for-hire. Even a few female dragons requested his services, to quell their desires for a same-sex encounter while still pretending to be straight.

Eventually, the higher classes of draconic royalty became interested in the bird. Slowly but steadily, he worked his way up through fucking various noble houses, until he found himself in the very palace of the dragon emperor. There, he entertained the most powerful people in the world. He served them food and drink, he relieved all manners of frustrations, he helped ease negotiations, and he mastered the exquisite craft of erotic, full-body massaging.

Life was good. But the emperor was falling out of favor. Indeed, his rule grew quite unjust over time. Especially in the bedroom, the ruler of all dragons became a sick and twisted individual. Seki was whipped, spanked, fisted and forced to accommodate his master's more divergent interests. Massive orgies, feral beasts, gangbangs with more dicks than the owl had feathers, bucketloads of cum he was forced to swallow or drown in. Things were getting worse.

In secret, the famous cuntboy-courtesan met with shadowy figures. People who were equally dissatisfied with the way the empire was being governed. One rebellious king in particular, saw potential in the avian. He arranged for Seki to be trained in various arts of assassination. In order to save the realm, the bird was to kill the emperor himself.

The feathery whore lured his master into the bedroom. During a massage, using a special grip he himself had uncovered during a rigorous night of hands-on practice, he paralyzed the relaxing dragon. Then, the owl sunk a concealed dagger straight into the emperor's wicked heart. And thus, the most influential man in the world was no more.

At first, Seki was blamed for the assassination. But, the king that had recruited and trained him was soon appointed the emperor's successor. True to his word, the new ruler pardoned the killer owl. The beaked cuntboy that was born a whore, was appointed the title of Advisor to the Court.

Being granted access to the emperor's private library, Seki soon grew exceedingly smart and wise, becoming well-versed in the fields of alchemy, history and biology. Under the new lord's rule, and with his guidance, the realm flourished.

It was nice, being served instead of being the person serving, for once. But all too soon, the bird began to feel like something was missing. The thrill and excitement from his glory days, culminating in assassination, had left Seki with a permanent craving for adventure. With the new emperor's blessing, he ventured out into the outside world, and set out to become an explorer.

The going was rough, at first. Being a guest at the imperial court for so long, had caused the owl's street smarts to grow a little rusty. With the near limitless funds of the empire at his disposal, money was never a problem. Still, having to report to the royal quartermaster that his coinpouch was stolen was kind of embarrassing. The first few times it happened, at least. Once properly equipped, the bird left his hometown for the first time ever, setting off for the far corners of the world.

Seki reached places no man had ever been before. He climbed the highest mountains, he trudged through insidious swamps, he braved lifeless deserts, his torch lit up ancient caves, and he explored ruins of empires long forgotten. That is not to say that the owl's adventures were without setbacks. He got into fights with locals, he had to pay off debts with his body when the gold in his purse ran out, he was betrayed more than once by money-hungry assistants, and he was raped a dozen or so times by everything from packs of wolves to indigenous tribesmen to feral dragons. Nothing he wasn't used to, after his career as a courtesan.

Still, despite these complications, the avian's exploits mostly ended in success. After each adventure, the owl reported back to his lord, with fascinating stories to tell, new alchemical recipes to record, the location of long-lost places to mark on maps, and a report of the customs of people in other nations. Not everything was shared, however. A few of the secrets that the bird had uncovered were for his ears alone. Hidden truths that the world would be better off not knowing. They would die along with him, or so he had hoped.

As the years flew by, Seki grew old. His eyesight became worse, his reflexes slowed down, his feathers lost most of their colour, and he could no longer rely on his body to get him out of situations that his purse could not. When the avian found that his weary back could no longer carry the weight of his heavy bag of supplies, he decided to retire from the world of adventuring for good.

After consorting with the dragon emperor one final time, the owl set off for the human capital of Varanar. There, he met with a young kobold whelpling, begging on the streets. A few coins here, a couple scraps of food there, and some helpful words of wisdom and encouragement, all helped to befriend the tiny lizard. After all, it's always useful for a foreign spy to have a sidekick. An extra pair of hands, should things go south. An influential mind, easily persuaded to do his bidding. There was one last adventure in the old bird yet. Once more, he would shape the fate of millions.

Seki

Seki is an old cuntboy owl, one of the only friends the kobold has in the world. He grew up in the eastern dragon kingdoms, far away from Varanar and the hamlet where he resides nowadays. Even when young, the avian was particularly desired by a group of dragons with peculiar tastes. His exotic body was a dream come true for the decadent, deviant draconic patrons of brothels and bordellos. The perfect blend between masculine and feminine features.

In his younger years, Seki was an escort without equal. As his fame grew, the higher classes of dragon royalty became interested in the bird. Slowly but steadily, he worked his way up through various noble houses, until he found himself in the very palace of the dragon emperor. There, he entertained the most powerful people in the world. He served them food and drink, he relieved all manners of frustrations, he helped ease negotiations, and he mastered the exquisite craft of full-body massaging.

Life was good. But the emperor was falling out of favor. Indeed, his rule grew quite unjust over time. In secret, the famous cuntboy-courtesan met with shadowy figures. People who were equally dissatisfied with the way the empire was being governed. One rebellious king in particular, saw potential in the avian. He arranged for Seki to be trained in various arts of assassination. In order to save the realm, the bird was to kill the emperor himself.

The avian lured his master into the bedroom. During a massage, using a special grip he himself had uncovered during a rigorous night of hands-on practice, he paralyzed the relaxing dragon. Then, the owl sunk a concealed dagger straight into the emperor's wicked heart. And thus, the most influential man in the world was no more.

At first, Seki was blamed for the assassination. But, the king that had recruited and trained him was soon appointed the emperor's successor. True to his word, the new ruler pardoned the killer owl. The beaked cuntboy that was born a prostitute, was appointed the title of Advisor to the Court.

Being granted access to the emperor's private library, Seki soon grew exceedingly smart and wise, becoming well-versed in the fields of alchemy, history and biology. Under the new lord's rule, and with his guidance, the realm flourished.

It was nice, being served instead of being the person serving, for once. But all too soon, the bird began to feel like something was missing. The thrill and excitement from his glory days, culminating in assassination, had left Seki with a permanent craving for adventure. With the new emperor's blessing, he ventured out into the outside world, and set out to become an explorer.

The going was rough, at first. Being a guest at the imperial court for so long, had caused the owl's street smarts to grow a little rusty. With the near limitless funds of the empire at his disposal, money was never a problem. Still, having to report to the royal quartermaster that his coinpouch was stolen was kind of embarrassing. The first few times it happened, at least. Once properly equipped, the bird left his hometown for the first time ever, setting off for the far corners of the world.

Seki reached places no man had ever been before. He climbed the highest mountains, he trudged through insidious swamps, he braved lifeless deserts, his torch lit up ancient caves, and he explored ruins of empires long forgotten. That is not to say that the owl's adventures were without setbacks. He got into fights with locals, he was betrayed more than once by money-hungry assistants, and he faced trials ranging from packs of wolves to indigenous tribesmen to feral dragons.

Still, despite these complications, the avian's exploits mostly ended in success. After each adventure, the owl reported back to his lord, with fascinating stories to tell, new alchemical recipes to record, the location of long-lost places to mark on maps, and a report of the customs of people in other nations. Not everything was shared, however. A few of the secrets that the bird had uncovered were for his ears alone. Hidden truths that the world would be better off not knowing. They would die along with him, or so he had hoped.

As the years flew by, Seki grew old. His eyesight became worse, his reflexes slowed down, and his feathers lost most of their colour. When the avian found that his weary back could no longer carry the weight of his heavy bag of supplies, he decided to retire from the world of adventuring for good.

After consorting with the dragon emperor one final time, the owl set off for the human capital of Varanar. There, he met with a young kobold whelpling, begging on the streets. A few coins here, a couple scraps of food there, and some helpful words of wisdom and encouragement, all helped to befriend the tiny lizard. After all, it's always useful for a foreign spy to have a sidekick. An extra pair of hands, should things go south. An influential mind, easily persuaded to do his bidding. There was one last adventure in the old bird yet. Once more, he would shape the fate of millions.

Tak-Tik

Tak-Tik is a hardened criminal, a kobold whose tough life has lead him down the path of villainy and despotism. He leads his Ten Paw Gang to pillage and plunder whatever they can from the less fortunate inhabitants of the human capital of Varanar and its surroundings. Based out of an inn at the heart of the city, they rob to make ends meet, kill to keep a low profile, and rape just for fun. Banditry is a dangerous lifestyle, and every day could be their last, but at least they aren't living in fear, in poverty, or enslaved to morality.

The kobold's earliest memory is of him being beaten by the master of his former house. His whelpling arms weren't strong enough to carry the many platters and trays of food that his mother used to serve their demanding human hosts. Ever since she had been whipped to death, it had fallen to her son to carry out the myriad of household tasks fit only for slaves.

Sweeping, cleaning, cooking, washing dirty clothes, a whole laundry list of chores. If the young Tak-Tik did a bad job, he was punished in the form of brutal physical violence. The whip that ended his mother's life frequently found its way to his backside, and he was frequently pummeled to within an inch of his life. More often than not, he wished his master would go one step further, and send him the way of his mom. But alas, the human was cruel enough to keep the torture going, instead of giving his sole slave the freedom of death.

The older Tak-Tik grew, the more he realized how unjust his life truly was. He saw kobolds, just like him, running through the streets outside of the mansion. They didn't look like they had much, but they were content. Happy. Free. Why couldn't he be like them? Why did he have to be born a slave?

It wasn't right. Things weren't supposed to be this awful. The more he thought about how bad his life was, the angrier the kobold became. While he never saw eye to eye with his master, newfound resentment fostered within Tak-Tik. Hatred, so intense, that it gradually began to replace the fear that years of beating and discipline had instilled.

The lizard's surging malcontent manifested in the form of backtalk. Hushed, underbreath insults, which gradually grew louder and louder, until there was no mistaking the blunt threats and dastardly namecalling. His foul mouth got him beaten repeatedly, but the punishments only served to strengthen his resolve. Every blow he took, he vowed to repay in kind tenfold.

The situation went from bad to worse, as Tak-Tik began to fight back against his host family. He tore up their clothes, spiked the soup with rat poison, and even bared his claws against the man of the house, in the midst of a savage beatdown. The human almost cracked his skull wide open for daring to land a scratch on him. While the pain was almost unbearable, the satisfaction of having made the sadist bleed was all the encouragement the slave needed to keep going.

Keeping a slave as rebellious as Tak-Tik, was more trouble than it was worth. It was time to replace the mongrel with a less aggressive servant. But the human's pride kept him from simply setting the kobold free, and there was no way he'd be able to sell a slave that bites. That left only one solution. He had to kill the lizard himself.

At night, the slave owner approached the sleeping servant, knife in hand. But the closer the human got to his dormant target, the more slippery the wooden floor became. Unable to keep his balance, the would-be murderer fell flat on his face, losing hold of his one and only weapon. And that is when Tak-Tik, pretending to be asleep, made his move.

He'd overheard the man talking to his wife about what had to be done. A bit of soapy water worked miracles to set up a trap. And now, his murderous master had fallen right into his clutches. The lizard scrambled for the knife, grabbing it before his assailant had a chance to recover. What happened next was the grueling conclusion of years worth of beating-induced hatred.

Tak-Tik didn't stop stabbing until the human's corpse was little more than a mangled mess. Blood-soaked, and with death in his eyes, he staggered towards the bedroom. The master's wife was terrified. Her fear aroused new feelings, dwarfing the urge to kill. There were other ways in which he could get his much-needed vengeance.

The following few days, were a living hell for the former mistress. Tak-Tik defiled her in every way imaginable. He made her do unspeakable things, and like her husband had done to the kobold that was now in charge, she was brutally beaten whenever she so much as dared to refuse. In the end, after the lizard had had all of the fun he could think of, he sent her to join her husband in the next reflection.

No witnesses left behind. With both the master and the mistress dead, it was time to leave the scene of the crime. But not before rinsing the human blood off of his scales. They were crimson enough without. After cleaning himself, Tak-Tik left the house, finally a free kobold.

The streets of Varanar were foreign and strange, but life in cruel captivity had prepared the former slave well. It wasn't too hard to figure out the basics of how things worked. Gold for goods or services. But working reminded him of slavehood, especially with how crude kobolds were treated in the capital of humans. After almost stabbing his first boss, Tak-Tik decided a normal life wasn't for him.

The knife the lizard openly brandished, the same that had won him his freedom, spared him much of the harassment that his kind faced on a daily basis. Recalling the absolute power he wielded over his former mistress, an idea gestated in his deranged mind. He didn't have any money, but with enough force he could take whatever he wanted. Who'd stop him? The guards? He'd be long gone before they ever showed up. And good luck finding a single kobold in a city the size of Varanar.

Couldn't rob just anyone, though. Despite being armed and hardened, Tak-Tik was still a kobold. Drunkards, adventurers and guards could easily get the upper hand on him. Heck, anyone with a weapon bigger than his was a threat. He soon figured out that women and the elderly were the best targets, preferably by themselves. Although families, especially during market days, tended to carry the most money on them, on top of whatever they'd already bought.

Cornering prey in one of the many dark and secluded alleyways of the capital was a surprisingly easy task. People in Varanar relied too much on their clumsy, inefficient gaggle of guards. This had left commoners far too trusting and caring. Meek sheep to the slaughter. Luring them in with trails of coins, fake cries of help, or crudely made store signs, the little lizard made a lot of money preying on the weak.

Hissing and threatening alone worked wonders to get his way. Rarely did the kobold actually have to use his knife, but he wasn't afraid of taking the lives of those who were foolish enough to run, call for help, or try to fight. He'd still get what he wanted either way, be it coin, goods or pleasure.

The rumor that there was a serial killer, thug- and rapist-lizard on the loose, rippled throughout the kobold community. While most were scared of the dangerous murderer lurking about in the shadows, others were bright enough to realize that none of the victims thus far had been kobolds. Slowly, but surely, Tak-Tik grew a small following of fans, who saw his muggings as an act of defiance against the resident humans.

Some of the more repressed and criminally-inclined of their kind, followed in the deranged lizard's footsteps, making Varanar a much more dangerous place for all but kobolds. Others sought out Tak-Tik himself, offering to help him lure in victims, pawn off goods, or clean up after the act. And so, Tak-Tik's Terrors were formed. A tight-knit gang of four, lead by the former slave himself.

Due to the surge in petty crime, pickings in Varanar were growing slim. The group expanded their operations, moving into the forest to ambush travellers and traders. With a few more hands by his side, Tak-Tik could take on far larger targets. Dragons, wolves, even bears were fair game, as long as they were alone. Egging on one another, simple muggings often escalated to outright gangrape. Women, and sometimes even men, were stripped of not only their money, but their clothes, pride and dignity as well.

Eventually, Tak-Tik's eyes fell upon a pretty kobold, fresh in town. Kayun, or Footsie, as he was swiftly nicknamed. The two spent a heated, drunken night together. The red-scaled lizard took a liking to the newcomer. After some half-truths and embellishments, the rookie was persuaded into joining the gang, with one caveat.

In order to convince Footsie to stay, Tak-Tik had claimed his group was called the Eight Paw Gang. He knew the Kayun had a thing for feet, and desperately hoped the name would help him make the decision to stay. And perhaps, that was the straw that broke the camel's back. Whatever the case, Tak-Tik's Terrors were now the Ten Paw Gang. A change of moniker that his friends would never let him live down.

Tak-Tik

Tak-Tik is a hardened criminal, a kobold whose tough life has lead him down the path of villainy and despotism. He leads his Ten Paw Gang to pillage and plunder whatever they can from the less fortunate inhabitants of the human capital of Varanar and its surroundings. Based out of an inn at the heart of the city, they rob to make ends meet and kill to keep a low profile. Banditry is a dangerous lifestyle, and every day could be their last, but at least they aren't living in fear, in poverty, or enslaved to morality.

The kobold's earliest memory is of him being beaten by the master of his former house. His whelpling arms weren't strong enough to carry the many platters and trays of food that his mother used to serve their demanding human hosts. Ever since she had been whipped to death, it had fallen to her son to carry out the myriad of household tasks fit only for slaves.

Sweeping, cleaning, cooking, washing dirty clothes, a whole laundry list of chores. If the young Tak-Tik did a bad job, he was punished in the form of brutal physical violence. The whip that ended his mother's life frequently found its way to his backside, and he was frequently pummeled to within an inch of his life. More often than not, he wished his master would go one step further, and send him the way of his mom. But alas, the human was cruel enough to keep the torture going, instead of giving his sole slave the freedom of death.

The older Tak-Tik grew, the more he realized how unjust his life truly was. He saw kobolds, just like him, running through the streets outside of the mansion. They didn't look like they had much, but they were content. Happy. Free. Why couldn't he be like them? Why did he have to be born a slave?

It wasn't right. Things weren't supposed to be this awful. The more he thought about how bad his life was, the angrier the kobold became. While he never saw eye to eye with his master, newfound resentment fostered within Tak-Tik. Hatred, so intense, that it gradually began to replace the fear that years of beating and discipline had instilled.

The lizard's surging malcontent manifested in the form of backtalk. Hushed, underbreath insults, which gradually grew louder and louder, until there was no mistaking the blunt threats and dastardly namecalling. His foul mouth got him beaten repeatedly, but the punishments only served to strengthen his resolve. Every blow he took, he vowed to repay in kind tenfold.

The situation went from bad to worse, as Tak-Tik began to fight back against his host family. He tore up their clothes, spiked the soup with rat poison, and even bared his claws against the man of the house, in the midst of a savage beatdown. The human almost cracked his skull wide open for daring to land a scratch on him. While the pain was almost unbearable, the satisfaction of having made the sadist bleed was all the encouragement the slave needed to keep going.

Keeping a slave as rebellious as Tak-Tik, was more trouble than it was worth. It was time to replace the mongrel with a less aggressive servant. But the human's pride kept him from simply setting the kobold free, and there was no way he'd be able to sell a slave that bites. That left only one solution. He had to kill the lizard himself.

At night, the slave owner approached the sleeping servant, knife in hand. But the closer the human got to his dormant target, the more slippery the wooden floor became. Unable to keep his balance, the would-be murderer fell flat on his face, losing hold of his one and only weapon. And that is when Tak-Tik, pretending to be asleep, made his move.

He'd overheard the man talking to his wife about what had to be done. A bit of soapy water worked miracles to set up a trap. And now, his murderous master had fallen right into his clutches. The lizard scrambled for the knife, grabbing it before his assailant had a chance to recover. What happened next was the grueling conclusion of years worth of beating-induced hatred.

Tak-Tik didn't stop stabbing until the human's corpse was little more than a mangled mess. Blood-soaked, and with death in his eyes, he staggered towards the bedroom. The master's wife was terrified. Her fear aroused new feelings, dwarfing the urge to kill. There were other ways in which he could get his much-needed vengeance.

The following few days, were a living hell for the former mistress. Tak-Tik forced her to take over every household task that they made him do. She cooked and served him food, she washed his dirty clothes, and like her husband had done to the kobold that was now in charge, she was brutally beaten whenever she so much as dared to refuse. In the end, after the lizard had had all of the fun he could think of, he sent her to join her husband in the next reflection.

No witnesses left behind. With both the master and the mistress dead, it was time to leave the scene of the crime. But not before rinsing the human blood off of his scales. They were crimson enough without. After cleaning himself, Tak-Tik left the house, finally a free kobold.

The streets of Varanar were foreign and strange, but life in cruel captivity had prepared the former slave well. It wasn't too hard to figure out the basics of how things worked. Gold for goods or services. But working reminded him of slavehood, especially with how crude kobolds were treated in the capital of humans. After almost stabbing his first boss, Tak-Tik decided a normal life wasn't for him.

The knife the lizard openly brandished, the same that had won him his freedom, spared him much of the harassment that his kind faced on a daily basis. Recalling the absolute power he wielded over his former mistress, an idea gestated in his deranged mind. He didn't have any money, but with enough force he could take whatever he wanted. Who'd stop him? The guards? He'd be long gone before they ever showed up. And good luck finding a single kobold in a city the size of Varanar.

Couldn't rob just anyone, though. Despite being armed and hardened, Tak-Tik was still a kobold. Drunkards, adventurers and guards could easily get the upper hand on him. Heck, anyone with a weapon bigger than his was a threat. He soon figured out that women and the elderly were the best targets, preferably by themselves. Although families, especially during market days, tended to carry the most money on them, on top of whatever they'd already bought.

Cornering prey in one of the many dark and secluded alleyways of the capital was a surprisingly easy task. People in Varanar relied too much on their clumsy, inefficient gaggle of guards. This had left commoners far too trusting and caring. Meek sheep to the slaughter. Luring them in with trails of coins, fake cries of help, or crudely made store signs, the little lizard made a lot of money preying on the weak.

Hissing and threatening alone worked wonders to get his way. Rarely did the kobold actually have to use his knife, but he wasn't afraid of taking the lives of those who were foolish enough to run, call for help, or try to fight. He'd still get what he wanted either way, be it coin or goods.

The rumor that there was a serial killer and thug-lizard on the loose, rippled throughout the kobold community. While most were scared of the dangerous murderer lurking about in the shadows, others were bright enough to realize that none of the victims thus far had been kobolds. Slowly, but surely, Tak-Tik grew a small following of fans, who saw his muggings as an act of defiance against the resident humans.

Some of the more repressed and criminally-inclined of their kind, followed in the deranged lizard's footsteps, making Varanar a much more dangerous place for all but kobolds. Others sought out Tak-Tik himself, offering to help him lure in victims, pawn off goods, or clean up after the act. And so, Tak-Tik's Terrors were formed. A tight-knit gang of four, lead by the former slave himself.

Due to the surge in petty crime, pickings in Varanar were growing slim. The group expanded their operations, moving into the forest to ambush travellers and traders. With a few more hands by his side, Tak-Tik could take on far larger targets. Dragons, wolves, even bears were fair game, as long as they were alone. Egging on one another, simple muggings often escalated to outright murder. Women and men alike were stripped of not only their money, but their lives as well.

Eventually, Tak-Tik's eyes fell upon a pretty kobold, fresh in town. Kayun, or Footsie, as he was swiftly nicknamed. The two spent a heated, drunken night together. The red-scaled lizard took a liking to the newcomer. After some half-truths and embellishments, the rookie was persuaded into joining the gang, with one caveat.

In order to convince Footsie to stay, Tak-Tik had claimed his group was called the Eight Paw Gang. He knew the Kayun had a thing for feet, and desperately hoped the name would help him make the decision to stay. And perhaps, that was the straw that broke the camel's back. Whatever the case, Tak-Tik's Terrors were now the Ten Paw Gang. A change of moniker that his friends would never let him live down.

Tentacle Plant

In the vast depths of the massive forest surrounding the human capital of Varanar, there exist terrors far beyond the imagination of the average peasant. Unchecked, rampant evolution has lead to biological monstrosities of all forms, shapes and sizes. Giant spiders, eyeless echo-cats, furred dragon-wolves, carnivorous forest ponies and the infamous, fast-growing strangle trees are but a few of the unbridled horrors the uncivilized part of the woods has to offer.

The thing to be feared the most in the deepwoods is perhaps not the mindless wildlife, but instead the intently malicious groups that call the nightmarish hellscape of overgrown flora and fauna their home. Cults, squatters, tribes and desperate men on the run from the law can all be found within the darkest depths of jungle-like forestry. Little is known about the outlaws and hermits that spend their lives as far away from the comforts of civilization as possible. Since we know nothing about cults worshipping polypus things, let us instead concentrate on one deepwoods specimen in particular.

The tentacle plant is an invasive species which has overrun a large part of deepwoods through sheer numbers and devious tactics. Its main survival tactic is fitting in with the rest of the flora, burrowing its mobile roots into the ground to suckle on the nourishment of fresh soil. In this potted state it can remain dormant for months at a time, pretending to be a regular plant while constantly on the lookout for prey to devour. When an unsuspecting victim draws close, be it a naive traveller lost in the woods, or a resident herbivore unaware of the danger the plant poses, it springs into action.

A myriad of barbed tentacles lash out, attempting to ensnare the target. While rather weak on their own, the sheer number of writhing tendrils combined with the element of surprise and the sharp, painful barbs lining each individual tentacle, often suffice to overwhelm the victim. The point of this initial assault is not to outright injure or kill the prey. Instead, the plant seeks to restrain its quarry, preventing it from escaping until it has calmed down enough for the next step to begin.

The victim will typically thrash and squirm about, trying to sever the constraining tendrils with all of its might. Eventually, the self-inflicted pain from struggling against the barbs, along with the exertion and exhaustion from fighting for their lives, will have worn them down to the point where they are too tired to fight back. Only the most powerful and enduring stand a chance at escaping. The rest bear witness to the third phase of the tentacle plant's hunting regimen.

When it is suitably confident that its prey has been subdued, one or more slick and slender, self-lubricating barbless tentacles will emerge from the center of the writhing mass. These more tender, vulnerable vines constantly ooze a thick, sap-like substance. With a distinct, pleasant taste of honey, this highly addictive dark-yellow goop is laced with natural aphrodisiac and a mild, yet noticeable form of biological muscle relaxant. It serves as both the plant's pollen, and a means to keep victims sedated while slowly digesting them, all while they're still awake and somewhat conscious, lost between pleasure and powerless panic.

Prodding around the victim's body, the reproductive vines search for any exposed genitalia, or other holes for them to penetrate. Once they've found their way inside, they begin to thrust in and out, stimulating sexual organs while pumping a continuous, steady stream of drug-like sap, titillating and ultimately overloading the prey's senses, while the plant decides what to do next. It is here that the sparse few observations of the tentacle plant's behavior begin to differ wildly. While the details are highly unclear, two distinct patterns can be discerned.

When the local soil is fresh and ripe and nutritious, enough so for the plant to live and thrive off of, then it has no need for additional nourishment. In this case, the prey is pumped full of an exceedingly large quantity of pollen-containing sap, and then left alone to regain their strength, seemingly at random. When they later recover, get up and walk away, the sap will drip from their molested body, seeding the ground along whatever path they choose to follow, paving the way for a new generation of tentacle plants.

When, however, there is not enough floral food in the nearby ground layer, the results are typically far more grim. Kept in a befuddling state of near-constant climax, weakened and barely cognizant, the prey is fully engulfed by the tentacle plant. A mild digestive fluid, similar to stomach acid, rises from the very base. With the tendrils forming a water-tight, thorny wrap, the pleasure-addled meal has nowhere to go, as the scalding liquid rises higher and higher.

There is debate on what actually ends up killing the tentacle plants' victims. Some scholars insist they melt to death. Others claim that the tentacles form an air-tight seal, so they suffocate long before the acid is able to break their skin. A third group believes the target is fully submerged by the liquid, and thus ends up drowning. The only thing all eye-witness accounts agree upon is that half a day later, nothing is left but a pile of bones, spat back out by the cruel tendril-carnivore, as its tentacles unfold like the twisted blossoming of a flower of death.

Tentacle Plant

In the vast depths of the massive forest surrounding the human capital of Varanar, there exist terrors far beyond the imagination of the average peasant. Unchecked, rampant evolution has lead to biological monstrosities of all forms, shapes and sizes. Giant spiders, eyeless echo-cats, furred dragon-wolves, carnivorous forest ponies and the infamous, fast-growing strangle trees are but a few of the unbridled horrors the uncivilized part of the woods has to offer.

The thing to be feared the most in the deepwoods is perhaps not the mindless wildlife, but instead the intently malicious groups that call the nightmarish hellscape of overgrown flora and fauna their home. Cults, squatters, tribes and desperate men on the run from the law can all be found within the darkest depths of jungle-like forestry. Little is known about the outlaws and hermits that spend their lives as far away from the comforts of civilization as possible. Since we know nothing about cults worshipping polypus things, let us instead concentrate on one deepwoods specimen in particular.

The tentacle plant is an invasive species which has overrun a large part of deepwoods through sheer numbers and devious tactics. Its main survival tactic is fitting in with the rest of the flora, burrowing its mobile roots into the ground to suckle on the nourishment of fresh soil. In this potted state it can remain dormant for months at a time, pretending to be a regular plant while constantly on the lookout for prey to devour. When an unsuspecting victim draws close, be it a naive traveller lost in the woods, or a resident herbivore unaware of the danger the plant poses, it springs into action.

A myriad of barbed tentacles lash out, attempting to ensnare the target. While rather weak on their own, the sheer number of writhing tendrils combined with the element of surprise and the sharp, painful barbs lining each individual tentacle, often suffice to overwhelm the victim. The point of this initial assault is not to outright injure or kill the prey. Instead, the plant seeks to restrain its quarry, preventing it from escaping until it has calmed down enough for the next step to begin.

The victim will typically thrash and squirm about, trying to sever the constraining tendrils with all of its might. Eventually, the self-inflicted pain from struggling against the barbs, along with the exertion and exhaustion from fighting for their lives, will have worn them down to the point where they are too tired to fight back. Only the most powerful and enduring stand a chance at escaping. The rest bear witness to the third phase of the tentacle plant's hunting regimen.

Alas, this segment is too explicit for the safe for work version of this character sheet. Flip the switch at the top to NSFW if you want to read about the kind of things a tentacle plant does to its prey.

Yastara

The three dragon kingdoms which make up the draconic empire differ wildly in their governance. In the east, the emperor reigns supreme, commanding absolute divine authority over a select group of eunuchs, bureaucrats which settle most of the realm's affairs, keeping lower vassals and nobles in line, while settling internal affairs between the empire's major rulers. The middle kingdom is primarily a matriarchy, ruled by a long-lasting, female-dominated dynasty founded untold ages ago by the then-emperor's sister. It is one of the few places in the entire world where primogeniture is not an assumed custom, constantly leading to great confusion during diplomatic talks. In stark contrast to the middle lands, the western dragon kingdom is completely male-dominated. The king rules, the queen obeys.

The differences between the three segments of the empire run deeper than matters of administration and rulership. The societies and cultures within these vast lands are far too diverse and heterogeneous to properly compare. From the colonized goblin villages in the north-east to the naga reservations around the Great Lake to the western pureblood dragon tribes, thousands of vastly different communities call draconic lands their home; even if some of these often-primitive groups don't explicitely recognize the authority of the emperor.

The armies of the empire are easier to compare. The use of gunpowder is strictly forbidden, considered downright unethical and immoral. Despite this harsh restriction, the three kingdoms have differing strategical approaches to warfare. In the east, vast formations of militia spearmen are backed up by massive amounts of crossbowmen raining death from afar. Relying mostly on numbers, this levied core of the emperor's military might is backed up by the true battlefield powerhouses: the oni. Small groups of elite, armor-clad, honor-bound, katana-wielding dragon warriors. Considered by many to be the most lethal force in the world, these chosen few are groomed from birth, put through a rigorous training regimen, and indoctrinated until nothing but raw loyalty for the emperor remains within their broken minds. The perfect tools of war, sharpened to perfection over the entire duration of their lifetimes.

The middle kingdom relies mostly on mercenaries to fight their wars and patrol their borders. Any armed band of men, big or small, can count on near-permanent employment by the matriarchs, as there are never enough hands to keep the countless trading routes safe. This system of bought armies is rife with corruption, with tens of thousands of coins disappearing into the hands of non-existing warbands. Still, it's proven a very effective, if blunt, application of force in more recent conflicts. So long as the money keeps flowing, the middle kingdom will be protected. What happens when payments can no longer be made, remains to be seen.

The western dragon kingdom, finally, employs a more traditional army. Professional men-at-arms wearing heavy armor, employing only the largest of two-handed weapons. Pikes, halberds, claymores, hammers. Anything big enough to sever or cave in a human-sized head with ease. While a few bow-wielding auxiliary skirmishers are employed, the main focus is on charging into melee to swiftly and decisively decimate the enemy's own infantry. To act as a hammer to the front line's anvil, to strike from behind and to route pesky archers and crossbowmen, hunting packs of fearsome mounted dragon knights are employed. Riding massive, barded steeds of war into battle, a lance-charge from a full knight company in triangle formation can crash through entire battle lines, trampling and butchering any who dare stand in their way.

Despite there being an entire realm ruled solely by matriarchs, the western dragon kingdom is the only one out of the three that employs a mixed-gender military. There is, however, a catch. While any man may try to become a knight or a footman, only infertile women are allowed, encouraged, and often times even forced to join the army. If they can't give birth to strong, healthy boys to fight in future wars, then they themselves will be made to fight instead. Many regents and rulers make use of this blatant discrimination to dispose of their wives, citing their other halves as the reason why haven't had any kids yet.

One such former bride is Yastara, a golden-scaled dragoness that used to be married to the mayor of Salamar, until her noble partner caught her in bed with her own brother. Outraged, the mayor immediately enlisted his spouse as a permanent volunteer for the city's garrison. It wasn't like she had much choice in the matter. Either live as a soldier, or die for cheating on her husband. At least the pay was okay.

And so, the dragoness became a patrolwoman, standing watch outside of the royal palace all day, every day. It was boring work, but frequent visits from her antsy sibling kept the worst of the dreary dreadfulness at bay. Eventually, after a few months of standing around doing nothing, a certain blue-scaled princess took interest in the latest guard to be posted outside of her home. Seeing a fellow lady dressed up in full combat gear fascinated the young Saphira, and combined with the cruel tutelage of her combat mentor, it may have helped to nudge her on the path to prefering girls over boys.

With a member of high nobility vouching for her, Yastara was soon accepted into the local cavalry regiment. While not knighted -- after all, women were explicitely banned from any and all forms of knighthood in the western dragon kingdom, on behalf of king Onyx himself -- she was still granted a horse and a tailor-made suit of armor, courtesy of her regal friend. Being allowed to ride, train and fight with a detachment of dragon knights was no small honour, and for a few months, the first female cavalrywoman in the history of Salamar felt like she was on top of the world. Her good fortune, however, was not bound to last.

After a lesbian outburst with her younger sister, Saphira was sent away to the nearby human capital until her phase of liking other girls had passed. Without direct noble support, the actual knights were far less keen on entertaining the woman in their midst. In a matter of weeks, Yastara went from being an accepted member of the group, to becoming the butt-end of every joke, the lowest on the totem pole, the person nobody had to pretend to like anymore. Training sessions soon turned into boot cleaning shifts, barracks sweeping duty, or stable-tending assignments.

With Saphira gone, the yellow-scaled dragoness served as more of a maid than a knight. Still, it was better than standing watch; and now that the masquerade of mutual respect had been dropped, she was free to be as vile to her fellow cavalrymen, as they were to her. What were they going to do? Stop her from seeing her brother, the last shred of light left in her life? Yes. That's exactly what they did. Her freedom to come and go as she pleased once her daily duty was done, was stripped from Yastara. She was forced to spend every last waking minute within the palace walls, leaving only to accompany the other knights -- on foot, that is.

Now solely able to meet her sibling in secret, sneaking out under the cover of night to come together in taboo union, the following few years were some of the hardest in Yastara's life. The other soldiers worked her to the bone, often leaving her with so little energy left at the end of the day, that even a planned night-time outing to her brother's home couldn't keep her awake. To make matters worse, the knights were steadily starting to grow the wrong kind of interest in the woman they shared a barracks with. Thankfully, some minor forceful groping was as far as they got, before lady Saphira returned once more.

Having been indignified by the human court, the princess marshalled the local knights, along with Yastara. Together, they rode to Varanar in an attempt to storm the keep and bring Javert, the baron, to justice. The squad of dragons managed to make it as far as the throne room, but there they were met by an entire formation of musket-armed kobolds, lead by the anti-draconic human himself. Unfamiliar with gunpowder weaponry, the valiant knights charged ahead. Then some men were arrested, and others shot dead.

In the aftermath of the absolute massacre, only a dozen or so dragons were left standing. Princess Saphira had been spared on Javert's orders, and Yastara surrendered when she realized the fight was a futile one. The men that were left alive, were stripped of all armor and shipped to the dungeon. They would be dealt with later. The two women were humiliated by the baron, their clothing stripped piece-by-piece by the warmongering bastard, while his personal retinue watched, laughed, hurled insults and copped a few feels.

After quite literally dragging both of the dragonesses through the mud, the human in charge kept Saphira as his personal slave, while Yastara was thrown to the kobolds as a prize for proving their worth. And that is where she remains, every single last scaly vermin in the baron's employ futily attempting to impregnate the infertile wannabe-knight. Even the ones fucking the wrong hole think they have a chance to be the first to seed their rowdy fucktoy. Will she ever be free again? Who will win the war for Varanar? You decide.

Yastara

The three dragon kingdoms which make up the draconic empire differ wildly in their governance. In the east, the emperor reigns supreme, commanding absolute divine authority over a select group of eunuchs, bureaucrats which settle most of the realm's affairs, keeping lower vassals and nobles in line, while settling internal affairs between the empire's major rulers. The middle kingdom is primarily a matriarchy, ruled by a long-lasting, female-dominated dynasty founded untold ages ago by the then-emperor's sister. It is one of the few places in the entire world where primogeniture is not an assumed custom, constantly leading to great confusion during diplomatic talks. In stark contrast to the middle lands, the western dragon kingdom is completely male-dominated. The king rules, the queen obeys.

The differences between the three segments of the empire run deeper than matters of administration and rulership. The societies and cultures within these vast lands are far too diverse and heterogeneous to properly compare. From the colonized goblin villages in the north-east to the naga reservations around the Great Lake to the western pureblood dragon tribes, thousands of vastly different communities call draconic lands their home; even if some of these often-primitive groups don't explicitely recognize the authority of the emperor.

The armies of the empire are easier to compare. The use of gunpowder is strictly forbidden, considered downright unethical and immoral. Despite this harsh restriction, the three kingdoms have differing strategical approaches to warfare. In the east, vast formations of militia spearmen are backed up by massive amounts of crossbowmen raining death from afar. Relying mostly on numbers, this levied core of the emperor's military might is backed up by the true battlefield powerhouses: the oni. Small groups of elite, armor-clad, honor-bound, katana-wielding dragon warriors. Considered by many to be the most lethal force in the world, these chosen few are groomed from birth, put through a rigorous training regimen, and indoctrinated until nothing but raw loyalty for the emperor remains within their broken minds. The perfect tools of war, sharpened to perfection over the entire duration of their lifetimes.

The middle kingdom relies mostly on mercenaries to fight their wars and patrol their borders. Any armed band of men, big or small, can count on near-permanent employment by the matriarchs, as there are never enough hands to keep the countless trading routes safe. This system of bought armies is rife with corruption, with tens of thousands of coins disappearing into the hands of non-existing warbands. Still, it's proven a very effective, if blunt, application of force in more recent conflicts. So long as the money keeps flowing, the middle kingdom will be protected. What happens when payments can no longer be made, remains to be seen.

The western dragon kingdom, finally, employs a more traditional army. Professional men-at-arms wearing heavy armor, employing only the largest of two-handed weapons. Pikes, halberds, claymores, hammers. Anything big enough to sever or cave in a human-sized head with ease. While a few bow-wielding auxiliary skirmishers are employed, the main focus is on charging into melee to swiftly and decisively decimate the enemy's own infantry. To act as a hammer to the front line's anvil, to strike from behind and to route pesky archers and crossbowmen, hunting packs of fearsome mounted dragon knights are employed. Riding massive, barded steeds of war into battle, a lance-charge from a full knight company in triangle formation can crash through entire battle lines, trampling and butchering any who dare stand in their way.

Despite there being an entire realm ruled solely by matriarchs, the western dragon kingdom is the only one out of the three that employs a mixed-gender military. There is, however, a catch. While any man may try to become a knight or a footman, only infertile women are allowed, encouraged, and often times even forced to join the army. If they can't give birth to strong, healthy boys to fight in future wars, then they themselves will be made to fight instead. Many regents and rulers make use of this blatant discrimination to dispose of their wives, citing their other halves as the reason why haven't had any kids yet.

One such former bride is Yastara, a golden-scaled dragoness that used to be married to the mayor of Salamar, until her noble partner caught her in bed with her own brother. Outraged, the mayor immediately enlisted his spouse as a permanent volunteer for the city's garrison. It wasn't like she had much choice in the matter. Either live as a soldier, or die for cheating on her husband. At least the pay was okay.

And so, the dragoness became a patrolwoman, standing watch outside of the royal palace all day, every day. It was boring work, but frequent visits from her antsy sibling kept the worst of the dreary dreadfulness at bay. Eventually, after a few months of standing around doing nothing, a certain blue-scaled princess took interest in the latest guard to be posted outside of her home. Seeing a fellow lady dressed up in full combat gear fascinated the young Saphira, and combined with the cruel tutelage of her combat mentor, it may have helped to nudge her on the path to prefering girls over boys.

With a member of high nobility vouching for her, Yastara was soon accepted into the local cavalry regiment. While not knighted -- after all, women were explicitely banned from any and all forms of knighthood in the western dragon kingdom, on behalf of king Onyx himself -- she was still granted a horse and a tailor-made suit of armor, courtesy of her regal friend. Being allowed to ride, train and fight with a detachment of dragon knights was no small honour, and for a few months, the first female cavalrywoman in the history of Salamar felt like she was on top of the world. Her good fortune, however, was not bound to last.

After a lesbian outburst with her younger sister, Saphira was sent away to the nearby human capital until her phase of liking other girls had passed. Without direct noble support, the actual knights were far less keen on entertaining the woman in their midst. In a matter of weeks, Yastara went from being an accepted member of the group, to becoming the butt-end of every joke, the lowest on the totem pole, the person nobody had to pretend to like anymore. Training sessions soon turned into boot cleaning shifts, barracks sweeping duty, or stable-tending assignments.

With Saphira gone, the yellow-scaled dragoness served as more of a maid than a knight. Still, it was better than standing watch; and now that the masquerade of mutual respect had been dropped, she was free to be as vile to her fellow cavalrymen, as they were to her. What were they going to do? Stop her from seeing her brother, the last shred of light left in her life? Yes. That's exactly what they did. Her freedom to come and go as she pleased once her daily duty was done, was stripped from Yastara. She was forced to spend every last waking minute within the palace walls, leaving only to accompany the other knights -- on foot, that is.

Now solely able to meet her sibling in secret, sneaking out under the cover of night to come together in taboo union, the following few years were some of the hardest in Yastara's life. The other soldiers worked her to the bone, often leaving her with so little energy left at the end of the day, that even a planned night-time outing to her brother's home couldn't keep her awake. To make matters worse, the knights were steadily starting to grow the wrong kind of interest in the woman they shared a barracks with. Thankfully, some minor forceful groping was as far as they got, before lady Saphira returned once more.

Having been indignified by the human court, the princess marshalled the local knights, along with Yastara. Together, they rode to Varanar in an attempt to storm the keep and bring Javert, the baron, to justice. The squad of dragons managed to make it as far as the throne room, but there they were met by an entire formation of musket-armed kobolds, lead by the anti-draconic human himself. Unfamiliar with gunpowder weaponry, the valiant knights charged ahead. Then some men were arrested, and others shot dead.

In the aftermath of the absolute massacre, only a dozen or so dragons were left standing. Princess Saphira had been spared on Javert's orders, and Yastara surrendered when she realized the fight was a futile one. The men that were left alive, were stripped of all armor and shipped to the dungeon. They would be dealt with later. The two women were humiliated by the baron, their clothing stripped piece-by-piece by the warmongering bastard, while his personal retinue watched, laughed, hurled insults and copped a few feels.

After quite literally dragging both of the dragonesses through the mud, the human in charge kept Saphira as his personal slave, while Yastara was thrown to the kobolds as a prize for proving their worth. And that is where she remains, every single last scaly vermin in the baron's employ futily attempting to impregnate the infertile wannabe-knight. Even the ones fucking the wrong hole think they have a chance to be the first to seed their rowdy fucktoy. Will she ever be free again? Who will win the war for Varanar? You decide.