Nothing At All...

Your heart skips a beat when you see he is not where you left him. Again your darts dart about the secluded network of bark and twigs to find him, hoping against hope that he is there just out of sight and waiting for his chance. One last terrible smack of the feral's spindly hindpaw and the deafening silence that follows alerts you to her arrival. Instinctually you claw at the branch before you, pathetically attempting to drag yourself away from the monster. The useless folly is ended harshly when you feel a rough insectoid claw pin your trailing left ankle with ferocious zeal.

When that wicked hand grasps tight at your limb, the numbness doing nothing to dull the painful clench, you redouble your efforts to scurry away from your aggressor. All is in vain as the Venomoth, fully corrupted and enjoying the benefits of the strength boosting effect the plague seems to have, merely yanks you back toward her with one powerful tug. Your free leg, still as equally useless as its mate due to the venomous spores’ influence, dangles weakly in the air before being likewise captured and held together at the ankles.

A warm expulsion of air breaks through the barrier of muted nerves and dances across your still relatively sensitive under paws. Not needing to glance back to know what her plans for you are, you look back all the same to confirm your fears. Those purple eyes stare straight back at you, drinking in your horrified expression as she pulls your unresponsive legs up to her drooling maw. You can do naught but claw feebly at the bark before you, watching as that angular insect face begins to open slowly, the moth clearing enjoying the terror she has bestowed upon her captive. A long, sinewy tongue extends from the deep violet abyss that is the Venomoth’s fang tipped mouth before taking a long teasing lap of your left sole.

That cool, slimy sensation and the dreadful implications it carried are enough to stir your frightened mind to action. Again turning your eyes to the trees the owl once hid within, utterly distraught you call out, “P-please! Show yourself!! S-she’s distracted…!” The hungry feral seems completely unfazed by your panicked whimpering and continues to lick at you, enjoying her first tastes of her Sneasel meal-to-be. Not ready to accept her dinner plans just yet you search on through the darkened leaves for something, anything that could hint at the archers passing.

Hope dims considerably when you feel the infected woman, apparently finished with basting your hinds in saliva, take you up to the ankle with a single chomp. Despite the fear taking hold in your chest, the energy to struggle is all but tapped, consumed by your efforts to scan the branches for your saving grace. You feel the whimpers beginning to well up in your throat, coming to realize your imminent end in the belly of a mindless bug, and the dark thoughts begin to take hold.

Relief is an understatement, naturally, when you see a timid poof of feathers poke out from above the branches, a look of concern on his face. There he is, right where you left him! His cowl is pulled tighter than you remember, but he’s here; surveying the scene and ready to ambush the damned feral! Another hard pull on your legs drags them up to the knee within the slavoring tunnel, locking your paws tightly in her throat. Your elation tempered by the worsening conditions, you look directly at the man but don’t call out on the chance you could ruin his plans. Instead you nod rapidly, clearly indicating it’s time to put an arrow through your tormentor.

He remains motionless.

Why doesn’t he act?!

The thought is screaming about your head yet you refuse to betray his location to the feral. Another swallow brings your hips and soft tush inches from the devouring maw, hoisting your face from the branch causing your arms to dangle weakly against the bark. Time is running out.

Is he waiting for a clearer shot?! He’s wasting his chance!!

More feverish thoughts whirl around inside with hideous doubt beginning to take root…

You almost call out in zealous praise when at last the man slowly creeps to a stand, his movements practiced and quiet. It is a small mercy that the moth has slowed your descent to savor the flavor of your fuzzy hips, granting the ranger another chance to take aim. Your thankful smile is punctuated with your lethargic hands attempting to mime the drawing of a bowstring, though it likely looks ridiculous due to the vigor stealing venom within. The bird smiles as well, before offering a quick wave and hopping off the branch with his wings beating hard in the opposite direction.

If your head wasn’t hanging a few inches off the ground, your jaw might have literally hit the floor. Your final, **** justification that he might just be finding a better angle to fire from gets more and more irrational with each flap of his feathers. Within moments of his wave, he’s a dozen trees away, ducking and bobbing through the branches without so much as a glance back at the feline he’s doomed. When the undeniable truth of his deception, that he was merely waiting for the moth to be suitably preoccupied with you that he need not fear a chase, finally sinks in…

… You don’t exactly take it in stride.

“W-wait! You can’t leave..! Please don’t l-lea- Ahhucck!”

Your pitiful begging is interrupted when her ravenous tongue worms its way between your thighs to tickle at your deep blue sack. Your limp squirming does nothing to dissuade her from continuing to **** your sheath from behind. As she continues to work, you are able to just barely make out the avian's brown form darting up through the canopy, sealing your fate. You have little time to stew in the despair as the Venomoth tires from sampling her morsel, deciding to appease the unquenchable hunger.

A powerful tug from deep within that rippling throat envelops your hips and midsection in short order. With that undulating tunnel massaging your nethers, the urge to steal a few last shameless thrusts against the slickened flesh jumps to the front of your thoughts. With nothing left in the tank due to your poisoning, however, you can do nothing but whimper fruitlessly as the one way trip drags your half-mast erection down to its eventual resting place. The sordid thoughts are disrupted when you feel the insect getting another tight grip on your wrists, tongue roaming over your navel as she forces both arms to your sides to be similarly pinned within her maw upon another gluttonous swallow.

That’s it then…

At last your mind catches up to what your body already knew. With the cowardly pigeon in full retreat and both arms locked within the ferals gullet, it was only a matter of time. Tears begin to well up as the dread becomes as inescapable as your gurgly fate. More sopping wet smacks and hungry gulps drag your chest into the moth woman with your slender shoulders following suit. When all that is left is a thin neck supporting a terrified feline head, you are **** to cringe as that ceaseless bug tongue laps at your chin, wiggling all about your face as if you gloat about her conquest. Your last ragged breath is stolen from you when that mouth yawns wide one last time, allowing you to slip into the all encompassing darkness, rapid swallows sealing you away forever…

The stomach prison is surprisingly forgiving to your curled form, stretching and allowing for a small range of movement within. Most of those movements amount to disorganized kicks against the rubbery gut, though it could be worse. Such are the last flickers of your fading consciousness; spent on telling sweet little lies to soften the blow of your ultimate failing to change anything. The mercy of the spores dulling the senses to your plight; the knowledge that Arro and his people are likely safe from this chaos…

All cheap rationalizations to make your passing easier as at last your eyes droop low and the lights go out for good, nothing but a satisfied bug belch to mark your end…

The young owl ranger had been cutting hard though the night sky for the last fifteen minutes now, not wanting to slow down on the off chance that the moth was a fast eater and had room for seconds. With head on a swivel for new threats, both feral or otherwise, he would continue on toward the Nest to report his findings. The avian wouldn’t slow his flight path until finally he was back in friendly territories where the aid of pasting patrols were but a shrill screech away. He comes to a more measured pattern of wing beats, both to give the ache of his muscles some relief and also to digest what he had learned on his outing.

The council would be keen to hear what he had seen, and to learn as he had learned. The lone Sneasel spotted nearing their boundaries, Kale if the owl recalled correctly, had claimed to not know of what his vile brethren had been up to in recent times, and even dared to state he hadn’t consumed meat in years. All lies of course, the outrageousness of such bringing a smirk to the bird's face. In the end, the fool would take care of himself, pretending to offer an alliance with the ranger to best their common foe. The Decidueye wasn’t born yesterday and saw through the obvious ploy, allowing the cat to instead offer himself as a meal so that he might return to inform the Nest of his findings.

Despite the fallacious words pouring from the now long digested egg thief’s mouth, one thing he had said piqued the owls' intrigue. He had said that he was under a self imposed exile from the Huntsman clan, that he found their ways abhorrent and cruel. Likely another falsehood, the ranger realized, but it was certainly something of note to bring to his superiors. If there was indeed infighting breaking out amongst those devilish tree cats, it might be the opportunity the Nest needed to free themselves from the shackles of war. These things are best left to the thinkers back home, the archer reminds himself, as he was merely a warrior charged with seeking out and eliminating threats to the Great Arbor. Evidenced by how he had dealt with that naïve cat.