I'm always seeking feedback on how well I'm describing and capturing characters while writing vore-type things. Thanks for giving it a look! ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Good Hunting
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On first glance one would think that Muur was asleep.
The thick coiled body was still except for the faint tremble of breath, and on top of the wound circle of naga body the stoutly built shoulders and arms crossed to support his head, eyes lightly closed and expressionless. But his ears were tipped back, a sign of upset or excitement. He was well back in a hollow at the base of a large boulder, ferns taller than a man is tall concealing his form, allowing the bright yellow-oranges and magentas of his patterned back to better mimic light and shadow. Only the dark blue-black spot of his hair-like head scales told on his position.
A soft crackle announced the hunter’s position as his boot slipped into a stray twig. The maranaga’s ear, the right ear, twitched but gave no other indication of being troubled by a human so close. The man sighed, quietly; this naga was quite a large mature one, easily forty feet in length and one of the more robust he had tracked. It had taken four weeks of fruitless jungle treks, interpreting drag marks in poorly preserved soil and tweezering up various little samples of shed scale and... other leavings, to be sure it was a Maranaga and not some other native reptile. No doubt that this was the largest one about—sort of an ocher-orange with those dark magenta chevron patterns—the same one leaving the scale patches rubbed off on the bark of trees.
This “hunter” was no hunter of the usual sort. A hunter who never killed a living thing, shot no bullets, arrows or bolts but did take photographs. He was a rare sort in these times. Especially when it came to lethal predatory carnivores, and especially serpents and reptiles. There was still cause to be careful; the danger to himself was not diminished at all just because his intentions were good.
The ferns crackled with each inch as the hunter crawled on hands and heels. One hand reached back and touched the canvas bag at his hip. Securely closed, it contained his SLR camera and lenses. He always grew paranoid when his prize neared that it would slip out of the pouch and clatter noisily into underbrush. The idea of this majestic snake bolting away was more unsettling than the risk of being attacked at this point.
Muur opened one eye a sliver, concerned by the crunching coming closer. A curious sight was the top part of a brimmed hat bobbing along above the cover of the fern beds, approaching at the speed of a nonchalant turtle. The human obviously lurking below the hat was unaware of being watched—too caught up in keeping the noise of his stalking to a minimum. The huge naga uncurled his tail from under his thickest coil, joint by joint.
“Stand up.”
The hat froze at the deep, hoarse-throated command. Muur shifted forward, bringing his face level with the frozen photographer’s hunched form.
“I can see you, you know.” Cocking an eyebrow, the naga swept the ferns blocking most of the hunter from view away with his tail, “No need to hide.”
The hunter remained still a moment, knees quaking, creaking. His breath was ragged and quick and he fought hard to control it. After all, this Maranaga showed no signs of a threatening posture or sounds of displeasure. He felt compelled to obey the great serpent, curious to see what they had in mind for him.
Muur watched with green, slitted eyes sparkling with interest as the hunter stood, shifting feet cracking at the dead ferns under them but otherwise making no sound. The human said nothing—seeming short of breath, eyes widened with the knowledge of risk, but still somewhat slack… relaxed.
“Come closer.”
Muur’s interest was piqued as the man did exactly that, the clinking of camera and lenses in the bag drawing his eye. The huge naga reached out one hand, unzipping it with a single clawed finger until the camera plopped out onto the bed of fern. His eyes flicked back up to gauge the hunter’s reaction; a worried brow.
“You came for… photographs?” Muur muttered as he delicately palmed the SLR and examined the black and silver shell of the device.
The hunter nodded—his throat was too dry and his mind too fixated on his quarry to speak. Muur’s brow raised lightly. He set the camera to the side, on the top of a small mossy stone.
“I’m sorry.” Muur shook his head, eyes remaining warily on the human, “I can’t let you return to your home with photos of my kind.”
The hunter swallowed hard, growing more nervous. He hadn’t taken any photos aside from a few tests of parrots, insects, and a few blurry ones of deer. But he felt choked as he tried to speak out. Why? He felt… almost fine with whatever this Maranaga wanted to do to solve the problem of his mechanical witness. It was a strange sense of trust—as if he knew deep in him that the snake meant him no harm.
His skin tingled and twitched like a horse’s hide at a new sensation beginning at his ankles. He peered down to see the dark and white-banded tail of the large serpent wrapping around him. With a gasp he buckled, hobbled by tightened coils. He was now resting, his rear planted on the top of loops of coils, and at the naga’s mercy.
“What are you…”, the hunter’s voice cracked, and they coughed and swallowed hard to recover it. “What are you going to do to me then?”
Muur’s expression softened into a calm smile. His heart was conflicted—full of pity, but fully knowledgeable of the fact that if too many pieces of evidence for the Maranaga’s existence reached the hands of humans the island and their peaceful lives were doomed. He had to be sure that the man would not return after this day. He had to truly frighten him.
The coils shifted, wrapping the hunter in a powerful embrace. He frantically pulled away as the tail’s tip snagged one arm. Now he turned back, his eyes level with the middle of Muur’s elevated torso. He raised his gaze and met the Maranaga’s as he loomed above him, tongue flickering rapidly mere inches from the man’s face.
The hunter finally voiced a complaint—a small gurgle of fear. Muur hissed, the sound deep and resonating in his chest and throat, almost a growl. There was a soft pop and a schluck of flesh stretching as Muur’s jaws unhinged and split at the middle. The man held tight in his coils looked straight up and into his wide open jaws, fixated on the fangs and rows of hooked teeth, and expression of shock stamped on his face. The tongue flickered and drew back, revealing a small slit beneath it that led into the windpipe. And in the dark back of the mouth descending on his head and shoulders—a pulsing ring of soft throat, inviting visitors to be tugged inwards.
The hunter should have been in a panic; he should not have remained so stunned and compelled as he was. He’d no way of knowing this naga’s true intent, nor any life experience that would have prepared him for being plunged into a huge humanoid snake’s innards. But he remained paralyzed, tucked up tightly as the coils would allow. As the dark, rhythmic esophagus closed in over his head he let out a muffled yelp, but no more. Muur clamped both hands around the arms of the hunter and lifted the man higher.
Muur groaned, gulping and sucking the hunter’s shoulder’s deeper. His throat below the chin had bellied out, distended where the shoulders were slipping through the tight channel within. It surprised him how little the hunter struggled. But the Maranaga could forget that and instead succumb to the pleasant stretch and fullness the man’s body sliding in was giving him. Another swallow and the hunter’s hips were drawn into his mouth.
The world outside vanished, replaced by a dulling heat and the sounds of the Maranaga’s body. Deep, audible gulping as the rings of flesh tightened about him and pushed him deeper inside. A resonating and rhythmic thudding of a massive heartbeat—it grew louder and louder until it seemed almost inside the hunter’s skull. And then it passed, returning to just a part of the internal symphony. The man was pressed tighter as Muur took a deep and grateful breath. His feet were finally leaving the mouth and joining the rest of him.
The tightness passed as the naga let the breath out, a cavernous whoosh above him. He blinked against a drip of saliva making its way down his forehead. Why didn’t I struggle? he wondered, still in a dazed mist. And why aren’t I struggling now? But despite these thoughts, he couldn’t do it. He could not seem to bring himself to thrash about in the tight confines of the serpent’s esophagus (though he doubted he would have any room to struggle anyways).
Another swallow. This was the final one which pushed in a wave of fleshy rings against him and propelled him against what felt like a wall. But then, with the pressure of his skull and wetted-down hair against it, the “wall” eased open and became another ring of innards. He was forced through the portal—his imaginings went instantly to how toothpaste is squeezed from a tube. With a gasp of relief he slid past, lying limp on his stomach, into a new space.
He felt weak, but reached out to the side and met the thick, undulating wall with his hand. The tissue here was slick with a moist coating, and every so often he encountered an artery or a vein beneath the surface which echoed the drumming pulse. Muur’s stomach encapsulated him like a large sleeping bag of living insulation. Now and only now did he feel an inkling of terror—there was no mistaking that slight acrid scent in here. Some of this fluid slicking the walls pressing in on him periodically was not just mucus or saliva, though he hadn’t had the education to know if it was dangerous now, in an hour, in days… He sighed. Whatever was going to happen to him, he had allowed it to, and he gave up thinking on it for his own sake. Out of the context of being devoured this place seemed dark and restful—so he let himself rest his cheek on his crossed arms and be hammocked by the creature’s belly.
The tropical birdsong hadn’t ceased during the encounter, their upbeat and peppy noise almost drowning out the soft popping of Muur reorienting his jaw. He took another deep breath, feeling his lung expand until it pressed against the living bundle inside his stomach. As he let it out he gave a slight moan. What to do now with this harmless hunter? Keep him a while, of course—there was no more underrated a feeling as having filled one’s belly. But after that Muur was puzzled about. He scratched his chin, gazing out into the sunny woodlands carpeted in ferns. He’d never expected any human to react in such a submissive way in the throes of being eaten alive. It was as if it was something the hunter had truly wanted, even if it frightened him.
Muur turned his attention to the confiscated camera, picking it up from the mossy rock and brushing off a few stringy pieces of the small plants. There were buttons… none of which he had any idea what they did. He frowned. Time to consult the expert.
The added burden of the hunter inside his coils did not hinder his travels too much as he slithered homeward, looping up and over the large boulder he’d been resting against and travelling down towards a small river. Yma would know cameras and this… button thing much better than he. And perhaps he would have some idea of how to release the hunter without giving him the idea to make another photographic bid on the island.
The last hill was more sparsely vegetated, with plumes of tropical sawgrasses leading up to the slow-moving teal-green water. Somewhere upstream a small fish jumped, causing a stir in the water flies and surface-skimming beetles, but otherwise the scene was peaceful. Muur braced his way downhill with an arched coil, teetering slightly with the added bulkiness in his middle but reaching the bottom without spilling over. The den that he and Yma shared was tucked away a bit downstream on the flood-safe side of a high bank. He was making good time.
Muur’s passenger writhed and rolled over in surprise, bracing his feet and hands all on various points of the stomach walls. The serpent was mobile, the sensations—strange. Underneath him he could feel those powerful serpentine abdomen muscles flexing and gripping around the earth and its obstacles. The long body itself bent and weaved, sides pushing off against the ground to find extra speed. He’d never thought about what a snake’s power to move over land without the benefit of legs would be like from the inside. But he didn’t have much peace to be mystified by it, trying instead to remain level and not be sloshed around by the movement.
Where is he going? The hunter thought, gasping as his hand slipped and he was pushed into tighter confines by a powerful contraction of the guts. After swallowing something my size he wouldn’t have a reason to go anywhere... Not for a few days, at least. Hope was not something his racing thoughts had stumbled on yet, but that was about to change as he felt the slithering motions come to a steady halt, and voices faintly reached him from outside of the Maranaga.
“Ah, what’ve you got?” The muffled voice was pipe-y, jovial. Something brushed by the large Maranaga’s belly and pressed in on the stomach walls, “Oops, should say who have you got there. Friend?”
“Human.” This voice was certainly Muur’s from the characteristic hoarse deep tone, and from how it echoed out from the deflating lung.
“What’s this?” There was a pause, “A… camera?”
“Do you know how to turn it on?”
“Well, sure.” The whirring beep of the lens extending and the display ticking sounded, “There, done. Ooh, that’s a nice unicorn beetle picture. This guy here takes pictures?”
There was a mighty huff of frustration, and a moment of quiet. It was broken by a tittering laugh.
“What, what? I like pictures!”
“Just go through and see if there’s any of naga.” Muur’s voice had a pleading tone to it now. Whatever was against the belly bulge pressed a little closer, causing the hunter to momentarily grumble and push back with both hands for more space.
Blip, blip, blip… The hunter could hear the buttons of his own camera being used by his captors only feet away. There was a silence which lasted several minutes.
“Narcissism be damned, but there’s no pinups of you in here, Muur-y boy!”
“Ughh… Yma…”
“Too bad about that. Hey—maybe we should take some? You do look fine with a full tummy.~”
“Yma,” Muur’s voice was gruff. “This isn’t even our camera. And also we’re not exactly ‘in private’…”
“Haw, shy Muur.~” The voice purred, clearly amused by Muur’s embarrassment, “But tell me—what’s the plan for this photographer fella then?”
“I was hoping you had an idea,” Muur’s body stretched and straightened out, pressed still against the object that had to be Yma. “We have to protect ourselves. You know.”
“You know I know.” Something prodded at the hunter sharply, and it apparently came as a surprise to the naga as well as the flesh tensed and twitched at it, “Why not just hock ‘im up back on his boat and tell him to scoot?”
“You know that’s not enough.”
“Isn’t it, though?” Yma was speaking softly, “Are you that afraid of one photographer? He’s barely even kickin’ in there.”
“I know. It’s not what I expected.” Muur grumbled, “I was hoping this would scare him off, but…”
There was a sound of snickering. The man blinked and wiped moisture from his face as he tried to process the information trickling in through the innard walls. They were talking about him. Discussing releasing him? It seemed tremendously unlikely—carnivorous monsters don’t give up their prey. But if this naga had never intended for him to be food then that was not reliable. And again, that was assuming these creatures were carnivorous monsters.
“…E-excuse me? Can I say something..?”
The conversation going on around him halted. The hunter had a feeling that the two naga were giving each other one of those “looks”. He thumped the wall above him, rigid from many rows of ribs and the serpentine spine under the fleshy pouch of the stomach.
“Umm, I mean… Since I am the thing you’re talking about,” he continued. “If you’re worried that I’ll come back and take pictures, well… I’m pretty sure I don’t plan to come back if you’d, uh, be angry about it…”
“Err…” Muur seemed unsure, tense. The guts around the hunter crinkled up, compressing him into an arch.
“Muur’s a worrywart! He’s not angry—” And then someone shushed Yma.
“Don’t reassure him!”
“I’m just being honest,” Yma grunted. “You’re not angry—you are scared! For good reason.” It seemed that Yma leaned in closer to Muur’s distended stomach, for the voice was much more clear now, “I mean, you gotta understand this… You take a few clear photos of Maranaga, then you get more humans knowing about Maranaga. And after that—you get more humans coming to look at Maranaga and take pictures. Eventually you’ll get someone who’s not happy with taking pictures. Eventually you’ll get the word out to someone who wants some naga-skins or naga-teeth or pet freshy-kidnapped kid naga—”
“Unnnhhh… Yma, you’re making me nauseous…” Muur’s groan was backed up by a deep mournful gurgle from the bunching folds of his stomach. The hunter gasped and pushed the walls away again.
“I—oof—I get the idea..!” The hunter settled again, concern lacing his dripping brow but with his eyes sparked with a thought. “Well, you guys are assuming I share these photos around… I don’t.”
“…Never?”
“Then why do you take them?” Muur’s voice was shaky but no longer ill-sounding.
“Because I… I like to.” The hunter smiled in the dark confines, “I’ve really only liked nature and animals… other humans haven’t been too kind to me.”
He sat upright, pressing his head against the roof of the stomach and his back against the arching curve of the rearmost wall, “Besides, the way my reputation is with photos of strange animals… no one would believe the pictures were real.”
“…I see.”
As the quiet intensified the hunter began to worry he’d divulged too much. His cheeks reddened and burned. What was he thinking—he’d just poured out his shameful sob story to a pair of huge snake creatures, hoping that would be enough to let him go with his camera and a smile? What kind of B.S. appeal was it to whine that you’re not popular with the other hairless apes, therefore you should be fine with risking losing your lives and home for me to be happy with my hobby holiday? He curled up his knees as closely as he could, sighing.
The two naga were whispering, he could feel it. Muur’s lungs were releasing little puffs of air, but the sound was too distant and too soft to make out words. It was time to be roughly thrown out, he supposed. And time to say goodbye to his beloved camera, since they surely would not give it back.
Muur cleared his throat, the sudden clamor above him causing the man to jolt.
“I, ummm, I-I mean we,” Muur’s voice was quiet, nervous. “We’ve decided to trust you. We’ll let you go. With your camera.”
“What?”
“We’d rather make a friend than an enemy.” Muur gave a nervous laugh, “and a human who doesn’t fear Maranaga is… probably not going to be dangerous to us, so…”
“You’re seriously letting me be?”
“You asked to be let be!” Yma cackled, finding the whole deal hilarious as he thumped the outside of the bulge, “Just shoosh and accept the friendly barfing session!”
Muur’s belly tensed completely, the stomach walls churning and pressing inwards in preparation of rejecting the human inside. Splaying out both hands, the hunter whined before he even had time to worry about what his wants sounded like.
“W-wait..!” The tensing stopped, “Can I… stay in here for a little longer..?” His face burned again in a deep blush, “It’s kind of… err, calming.”
Again, the hunter had the feeling the two naga had given each other the “look”, but he relaxed back into the soft chamber’s walls anyways. It didn’t seem as crazy anymore how easily he’d been swallowed, not that he knew the trusting and timid nature of these Maranaga. Maybe he was psychic—somehow he’d gotten that sense of a creature that wouldn’t harm without good reason. Or even reluctant to harm even with a decent cause. They were peaceful. It was refreshing.
“Hmmm…” Muur seemed to relax, the cords of muscular tension releasing and making the innards enveloping his guest even more cushioning, “I don’t mind.”
The day wore on a bit longer, an hour seeping past like liquid sunlight. Muur and Yma were somewhat entangled in the sunning space outside their den, a bulbous lump in Muur’s coils creating the occasional snoring sound. Grasshoppers occasionally landed on the hair and ears of the two Maranaga, but a swish sent them flying off again without disturbing the large reptiles.
Yma was purring, watching Muur’s expression of contented fullness and absolute comfort with a good humor. And a teasing smirk.
The larger of the two must have felt Yma’s eyes on him. Muur half-opened an eye and glared at him.
“What…”
“I was just thinkin’,” Yma grinned like a toad. “You’re lucky! You found one of those Vorey Phils.~”
Muur groaned, settling his face into both palms as Yma tittered away. Why do I live with this goober… He settled again, throwing an arm tightly over Yma’s shoulder and hugging him a bit roughly in response. Ah, now I remember why. Yma snuggled into Muur’s chest, happily sharing the warmth the big naga was picking up from their “houseguest” as well. Muur was too full, to relieved, and too sleepy to worry or gripe anymore today. They all were.
FIN
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New material I'd like to get a bit of critique on! I'm trying out new brushes for sketching and coloring and this two-part manta ray POV thingie is one of the first things I did with color on this new brush. Just want to hear how the style enhances the maw, the texture of the manta fella, and how it works with innards. ^^ Thanks in advance!
Thought it was about time I sought some critique on this two-part work. This pair of drawings are... a bit unique, in that it's the first time I've ever drawn my own persona character as prey rather than predator. 
Omnomnom~
