Reg

“HAHAHAHA!!! Bring it on you DICKLESS CURRS!!!” You shouted, your eyes alight with feral pleasure, as you roared your entrance unto the field of battle, blood pounding in your ears even as the Lion growled it’s sweet song of sorrow and salvation. The essence of its divine favor flowed though you as pleasure and pain tingled sweetly up your spine.

The blessings of the Lion were upon you. Filling you up. Making you stronger.

“Come on guys we can take her!” One of the men cried out, his shabby armour and sharp stick only barely managing to look something less than terrified as he pointed towards you. You skin glistened under the sun even as he tried to rally the troops. A feral grin graced your lips as they lifted ever so slightly to reveal bloodthirsty fangs. You could already feel the fear which gripped them, sentenced as they were to fight you here and now.

It took a moment, but they managed to work up the courage to charge.

You stabbed forth, the first assault dealing with the leader of the pack, a jab to the gut putting him down and out in a moment even as you danced forth with your large frame into the midst of your fellow slaves. Another went down as your blade found its way into his leg, a third taking the butt of the spear to their groin in almost the same motion.

Three wounded.

The battle field was where you belonged, the place where your blood soared in ecstasy even as you stabbed and bled your foes.

Or rather didn’t bleed.

The blessed skin of the grand Lion was yours, and none of those who participated here were anything akin to strong enough to even leave their mark. A pity really, this life you’d been forced into... the only joy to which you could look forward was the incessant beat of the pounding heart as blood spilled and lives ended. The fourth found his blade scraping loudly against your skin as you smiled at him with glee.

This was the training of a warrior.

Or rather the proving of one.

“Stop messing around with them demi-bitch, get ta showing me my coin’s worth.” The man who ‘owned’ you shouted, his voice a bitter reminder of the fact that this pleasure which you took here and now was still at the behest of another. Not that that particular detail bothered you over much, you’d always been one to take on the troubles of others as your own, you’d even expected to do so from an early age.

The most respected and well-paid of professions from your home was the art of killing others for money.

And that is what bothered you about this.

The entire ‘slave’ thing meant that as unnatural as it felt, you were compelled to the will of another without your pay.

Every time you fought without receiving so much as a single coin you couldn’t help but feel a slight flush of shame, a dishonor to your mother. No battle was to be wasted, she always said, every fight should be for a purpose which sees you richer than when you began, each battle should be but a show for the next.

Failure of course would see you going home empty handed.

And the more you thought about it the more you understood, every fight you ran as a slave felt like you’d failed all over again. Again and again and again. Failed in the one battle of your life in which you’d never even gotten a chance to fight.

You hated that feeling.

That bitter reminder which stayed stabbing in your gut as you remembered that for one moment, you’d let yourself down, you’d let your guard down. That for one precious, wonderful, terrible moment... you’d let yourself be weak.

*CLANG!*

The light excuse for a spear which you’d put your hands on before the match began rang out against the helm of the fool before you, its somber tone speaking volumes of its own weakness. You could already feel the slight give which it was making when you hit someone, that subtle feeling of a weapon near its breaking point.

All in all, a good thing for your final unfortunate opponent. After all if it had been a proper weapon in your hand his head wouldn’t have been ringing, it would have been caved in. You’d never fought without the intention to kill even against your venerable father, who’d taught you everything about the lion’s path.

“Reg you idiot. I told you pick up the Halberd not the fucking spear.” Your annoyed ‘trainer’ growled even as you ignored him and advanced on your prey, fallen but not completely out. “I turn my back for one minute and already she’s fucking everything up. If you break another one of those...”

You almost laughed at his puppy dog growl, the bald, fat human pretending he had real power. At most he could force you not to fight, force you back in a cage wracked with orgasms and pain so bad that you wanted to die. Twisting your insides until you wanted nothing more than to cum, while the pounding flame in your mind gave your pain to the Lion, leaving you an insane mess.

Hardly a punishment to be too scared of.

Though you were forced to admit that it was an... Unpleasant experience... one which you didn’t want to happen again, it was not something which you could allow your pride to bow before. Such was the blessings and the ways of the Lion. Defeat, death, and destruction. They could hurt you, they could push you back. But they could never keep you down forever.

You made as much clear with the rude gesture of genitalia with your fingers which you’d learned all those years ago when first you’d found your way to these shores.

An annoyed bolt of pain followed by an intense one of pleasure streamed though you like a storm as you held yourself still and grinned like a fool until the moment had passed. Nothing less than absolute punishment would cow you, you promised.

Nothing less.

The owner tolerated it. He’d bought you almost directly off of the bitch after she’d sold you upriver. You’d given her your heart only to have it ripped out and stepped on, set on fire because you let yourself be careless like your mothered always warned you against.

But then, mother had always expected you to take up the woman’s work of espionage.

Not at all for you.

“The dammed Halberd feels weird. You got fucking ripped off since they god dammed sold my spear separately.” You missed your one true weapon something fierce, a spear could almost emulate some aspects of it, but in truth a halberd was a lot closer to the oversized weapon which you’d wielded. A weapon which had been in your family for ages, invested with the spirit of the Lion and reinforced with every generation who’d wielded it.

That you’d never manage to give it to your own child someday was one particular can of worms which you barely wanted to face.

“Well excuse me for not knowing that the fucking lump of metal was anything important, you were sleeping at the time like a baby, it didn’t seem like much more than typical tribal garbage to me.” Your ‘owner’ rudely returned, you never remembered the fool’s name.

You snorted at the retort, more likely the asshole had been playing cheap-skate and figured that an exotic pleasure slave wouldn’t need to come with her own weaponry. After all you were a perfectly salable and profitable package without the extra expense of a weapon which had probably been offered for more than your own life as a slave had been. You couldn’t help but grin at the day he’d found out that such had not been the truth.

Someday, you’d need to track it down... someday.

… somehow.

Once you could free yourself of the accursed binds which held you.

“Look sharp you, an important buyer is going to be looking in here today and we can’t be lacking.” The man bellowed, even as the injured were escorted off to be healed up. Apparently the vile man had a deal with a dammed good healer, patch ups never too long to happen unless the slave caught a bad case of the dead.

Curiously the healer didn’t seem capable of even the most minor resurrections, just a near miracle worker on lesser wounds and infirmities of the flesh.

Apparently an inventive mixture of Fleshcrafting, druidic healing techniques, and the ‘Chi’ techniques of the more esoteric monk types all mixed together in a single godless package. You supposed that it was a fair enough trade off, most healers were equally bad at resurrection as they were at mending. Still you had your suspicions about the particulars of it, and the healer was apparently strange enough that most avoided it almost outright.

You’d never found reason to undergo his touch.

You walked from the training sands, bringing back the flimsy weapon to its rack even as you stripped down out of the flimsy excuse for a tunic which you’d worn into battle. Most of the time the slaver liked to keep you naked and exposed where ever he could manage it, another control mechanism. Some slaves broke down in desire for more dignified circumstances alone, it was useful over all for a man who bought and sold the flesh of men.

You ignored your nudity like you ignored most of the other problems of your life. You’d never been one to lament. And besides, the Lion had blessed you greatly with assets which would stay firm and strong no matter what you wore, or didn’t wear.

Though there were other assets which would firm as well, you could look down and see yourself having risen at the end of the fight, the power of the Lion filling you up as you up even with a group of weaklings like that. You’d breathed in the wonder of its magnificence, invoking its powers even in the small way of having your skin resist a sword. The pulse of the lion giving away all pain to its progenitor, worship in the form of action as you’d used its power. But it was not a feminine power in the least, virility in a very masculine fashion was part in parcel to the package. And where the lion’s spirit could not infuse because it did not exist...

Well, the divine was good at making what it wanted to happen, happen even in the absence of reason.

In short, you were left a bit on the bothered side, a very male organ standing proud from the point above your vagina where it had sprouted up, and there would be little relief in sight. You supposed that was what the slaver wanted, after all it added to your exotic appeal, and thus the potential asking price if he played his cards right.

Well, on the other hand it hadn’t been that much of a fight, and while you were standing at attention, it wasn’t uncomfortably so, barely more than half mast, enough for display, but only just.

“Ah! Good master I’ve secured quite a few good ones on the market for today...” The slaver spoke, his eager voice betraying the importance of his customer. Strange really, he usually received almost everyone in the same manner, this had to be either someone well connected or someone whom he feared. Possibly both, but that was hard enough to parse out as it was.

A quick sniff of the air told you that fear was the closer motivation. A second told you just what you were dealing with, though only though experience.

Dragon.

Your eyes fell upon the source… or rather sources of the scent.

Hard to believe but they were barely more than children, happily skipping though the market and smiling even as the greasy bastard escorted them though his facility, their eyes roaming about even as they took in the sights of the various slaves now gathered for their perusal.

“And this one she’s a fearsome fighter from the deep continent.” The grease ball said even as he showed the two dragons to you. “Reg of Numidia, caught from far and away across the distant lands deep in the heart of the darkest of jungles. A rare one she is, Lion demis aren’t often seen about these parts, and even the ones so seen don’t carry the mystery and power of this specimen.”

You almost rolled your eyes at his building up of your reputation. Not completely wrong but then you’d always steadfastly refused to give the actual location of your village even at the worst of things. Though that was more a case of a lack of knowledge on your part than anything else. Nomadic Mercenaries were notoriously hard to pin down.

The general area he presented you as being from... you could say that you’d been and traveled deeper than that into the heart of the continent, where some of the civilizations there were still untouched by the outside world.

But everyone needed someone to fight. Though the path of the Lioness tended to pay better in those more closed up aristocracies, far more backs which wanted stabbing.

Strange combinations of magic and innovation had made the dark jungles some of the most dangerous, yet fertile places the world had ever seen, and combat was fierce for those places where resources were not only abundant, but reliable and safe. Still with the limits of manpower which many of those smaller divided nations had, it was usually better to hire mercenary forces to settle disputes and gain leverage.

Even in just the process of growing up she’d seen all kinds in and outside of the battlefield.

Dealing with the finicky financial stuff was women’s work, part in parcel with the who’s who business of assassination. You’d learned much of it on your mother’s knee and when you’d finally struck out on your own you’d found it useful. Fondly you remembered the times you went out in local garb listening in to the rumour mill and looking for marks with your Mother.

It bought a slight smile to your face even as the two dragons mulled over you. And then the male dragon looked up at her, offering a conspiratorial look before…

*PUFF!* “Eep!”

You blinked, as a ball of icy cold splashed across the slaver’s foot.

“No lying.” The dragon child spoke, eyes staring intently in a manner which would have been adorable if not for the predatory reminder of just what it was. “Where’s she really from?”

“... I… I…” The slaver stuttered.

“He doesn’t have a clue.” You snorted, breaking protocol as he turned to offer you a sharp glare. “And I never said.”

“... To be honest she was caught out in Gallia, a reasonably successful mercenary captain it seems. But apparently her crew were likely not too happy with her over something.”

You snorted again at that one. “My crew would have stood by me if they’d know any of this would go down. I was kidnapped and betrayed. And she was such a nice girl too…”

“I want her.” The male dragon spoke. “She’s got a good smell to her.”

“I’d warn against using her as a pleasure slave myself. Quite a few lost bits when we tried to give her proper training.” The slaver chuckled.

“Meseth, you sure about this?” The dragon girl asked, her purple eyes flashing as she regarded him.

“Of course I am Carith. The nose always knows… It hasn’t lead me astray yet.” The young dragon spoke proudly.

“So it seems, he seems to home in on the special ones every time.” The slaver admitted with a shrug. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to make her a gladiator then.”

“Yeah, she looks like she could really have a good go of it.” He grinned with a childish demeanor. Then he turned to you, his red eyes pinning you as he spoke. “A mercenary. Are you

“Whatever, so long as I get to fight I’ll be fine.”