Slog has a brief moment of sentience. All his life he has wanted nothing more than a delicious meal. Even though he loves his new masters, he has been hungry for a long time. He has waited for
this mushroom for a very long time.
Decades ago when he was but a tiny Tykeblob orphaned on the hard streets of Bloopityblop, Slog begged for days on end with his pitiful lazy eye(s). "Will blorble adorably," the sign said. "For food," it said. Slog took what he could get. Sometimes a fraction of a ration of Cave Bat mash would be all he'd get for a week. Slog wondered every day if he could do something, anything, to climb out of the gourmetless pit he'd fallen into so long ago.
One day, slog went against his better judgement. It was so simple: a heavy, leathery bag on a stick carried by a lonesome traveler. His orphan-senses picked up the deliciosity hidden away inside. All he had to do was slowly slide up the stranger's back, climb inside the pack and feast. First the legs, then the shirt, and Slog was on the wanderer's sack-stick before he could say blorble. He was just moments away from the amazing meal kept inside. What would it taste like, Slog wondered silently? Like Dragon Jelly? Like Hammerhead Head? Like CHICKEN?
Slog tried to slide forward, but something slid him back. With every push up, an unseen force pushed down. Slog cried out, but there was no answer except the howling wind from a distant pack of evening windwolves. Slog looked down, terrified he might see the stranger's face and find it to be a young boy or girl, maybe as hungry as him. To his utter horror, he saw white lightning crackling over a dark blue sphere, a hole opening into infinity, into eternity below and came face to face the force pulling him down:
Gravity.
Slog was off the traveler's sack. Slog was off the traveler. Slog was off everything he knew, falling through a crackling void without end. He felt a wincing pain in his center: a small, all-present hand pulling something precious, something important out from him. A brief light shone in front of him. It was beautiful, simplistic. It was Slog. It was everything Slog was! Every emotion he'd ever felt, every blorb he'd ever orbled, every adolescent Red Slime to ever turn him down. Slog smiled for a second, and it was gone.
Slog was in the New Place. This was his punishment, trapped in-
Oh, wait, sorry. This was supposed to be a combat update, wasn't it? Um. Carry on, then.
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Topic: (ISG) The Warrens of Oric the Awesome ??? (Read 3964749 times)