“We’ll see about that,” you start. “Name and rank please; I’m taking this straight to your superiors.”
The gnolls break out in manic cackling, which was precisely your intention. Your right shin bounces up and smacks one of them neatly into the groin, and the short chainmail kilt isn’t much good for blocking blunt hits. Before he has folded whining to the ground you have your dagger out and arching at the other one’s throat. You get a good scrape in, but he manages to pull his neck back just in time to avoid lethal damage.
You press your attack while he has to keep one hand over the wound, slashing several cuts at his upraised arm. The mail shields him from the worst of it though, and behind you hear the other gnoll getting up. It’s a time for radical moves.
With his hands up you manage to land a kick to the gnoll’s chest, pushing him back a few steps, between which you swirl and throw your dagger at his friend who’s just about to charge you. The blade hums through the air and buries into his left eye socket up to the hilt. That’s one taken care of.
Unfortunately you had to sacrifice your back for a moment to win that. Two arms thick as young tree trunks close in over your chest and squeeze. Your ribs creak nastily. You try stomping his bare feet, but gnolls consider boots luxury for a reason. The pressure on your chest cavity is becoming unbearable, and your vision’s starting to blur. The gnoll has strength to crush your body twice over. Grasping your last straw you let your head slump forward, feigning to pass out… and then jam it backwards like a shot from a catapult.
Instead of the expected feeling of bone crunching there’s a momentary flash of teeth followed by moist darkness and more pressure, which takes both of you by surprise. While you had prepared for a headbutt, the gnoll was about to bite your head off; the combination means he instead engulfed you up to the neck in one go.
To your horror the turn of events suits him just fine. The excruciating pain doubles as the gnoll starts cramming your shoulders into his jaws. Your leather jerkin is barely enough to shield your skin from those sharp teeth, but it won’t be much help against a gnoll stomach which can digest virtually anything. It’s hard to put up much of resistance though when your face is stuffed inside a maw that stenches worse than a week-old corpse and your lungs are about to cave in to pay a visit to your spine.
The situation grows worse still as the gnoll gets past your slim shoulders, now packed so tight they might pop out of their joints at a breeze. The gnoll’s first proper swallow bends your back into a curve that would snap a human like a twig. The nimble feline anatomy has its downsides too since it allows you to slide down the throat like a long noodle. Blood packs into your head gradually tilting upside down; this is your last chance to prevent yourself from becoming a late-night snack.
Gathering all your remaining strength you spring upwards, paddle empty air furiously and finally anchor one leg behind the gnoll’s neck. This throws him off it seems since you stop diving down the gullet. A glimmer of hope sparks in you eyes irritated by noxious saliva. Another leg makes the awkward angle, locking into a knot the gnoll can’t untie without removing his grip. He can’t swallow you further.
The stalemate is far from symmetrical though. The fetid, rotten air you’re breathing is scarce at best, and the dizziness intensifies by the second. Little by little your leg hold loosens as the brain can’t keep up commands anymore; little by little you start sinking again into the awful abyss. The gnoll bides his time patiently, then resumes the eating twice the hungrier.
Soon your soaked head squishes into a larger cavity with you barely holding on to consciousness. Your arms are now pinned by the throat, allowing the gnoll to release the one last obstacle from turning you into a kitten-burger without loaf. He’s so eager to wolf you down he doesn’t even notice the clinging pouch of coins on your hip, swallowing it all the same. The pair of furry knees and shins slip inside next, and then it’s only our proud, lethargic tail which gets sucked messily in like a spaghetti. The gnoll tosses his head back, revealing the moon alone the last sight of you disappearing into the wet darkness, and then the muzzle snaps shut definitely.
“Stupid kitty… but tasty,” the gnoll comments while his belly swells and settles under the expanding mailshirt. Grabbing a leg of his fallen fellow plus the discarded bottle of wine he heads back to join the party. No point wasting good meat, after all.
Inside the tight sac you moan feebly for most of a minute before succumbing to the toxic environment. Your life wasn’t all for nothing though: around tomorrow morning the reward you’re buried with shall make a certain gnoll very lucky indeed, supposing he bothers to check on you on the way out.
