Solveig's Big Bet (cons, butchery, gambling, fantasy setting)

The Fallen Flagon was the most disreputable, notorious tavern in the city. Nestled in a dank basement in the warehouse district, down a lightless warren of streets the city militia rarely entered, it was a haven for the worst reprobates and criminals of the Silk Coast. In the Flagon's smoky depths they drank, ate, gambled, fucked, and spent or were robbed of their ill-gotten gains.

This suited Solveig just fine. Sure, her gains weren't ill-gotten - the prior owners were bandits, so killing them and taking their money had been an act of civic-minded and legitimate salvage. But she found the rougher crowd more fun, and also more understanding when her coins were a bit bloodstained.

A few pence from her bulging coin-purse bought her another mug of ale and a flank roast off the meatgirl turning over the fire. Thus equipped, she went in search of trouble.

The first trouble to try to find her was a minotaur. His massive cock was almost fully hilted in the throat of a barmaid, her skin going purple from asphyxia, with one large furry hand holding her head in place. He leered at Solveig and beckoned her with his other hand, evidently unhappy with his current partner's poor performance, or maybe just her poor lung capacity.

She rested a meaningful hand on the grip of her mace in response. It was too early in the evening, and the anyway the bull-man seemed rude.

Solveig found her preferred trouble, as she often did, at a table of gamblers in the corner of the bar. A drunken dwarf had just abandoned his seat, muttering darkly as remaining three players divided up what remained of his bankroll. Solveig, who knew a sign from fate when she saw one, took the open chair. "What's the game?"

"Well hello there, darlin'," one player greeted her. His lower jaw jutted out, with large, bulging canines. Half-orc, Solveig figured. "King's Bluff. Ten pence a blind, five pence to buy a card, knaves are wild."

"Deal me in," she said, and a man at the orc's left silently dealt her a hand of cards. He wore threadbare wizard's robes and had pale, sickly skin. His down-on-his luck demeanor clashed with the large, neatly-sorted stacks of coins on the table in front of him.

The first few hands went to her advantage. An early run of clubs snowballed into a flush, beating the half-orc's Knight-and-Page; the second pot split between her and the wizard after a lucky last-minute Knave of Roses salvaged her weak hand; the third was hers outright again with a Knight's House beating the table's fourth player, a finely-dressed elven lady smoking incessantly from a long pipe. "The little lady knows how to play." The half-orc said, lisping slightly around his too-large teeth. "Another round of drinks for the table?"

Solveig, who loved few things in the world more than free beer, gulped the remainder of her current mug and agreed. The wizard nodded offhandedly. The elf made a contemptuous noise. "I wouldn't touch the swill here," she said, repacking the bowl of her pipe. It was long, ivory, and delicately scrimshawed. To Solveig's well-tuned treasure-hunter's sensibilities, it was easily worth more than all the money on the table put together.

With a new drink and a fresh hand of cards, Solveig was feeling good. The half-orc was leering, eyeing her up, and as she pushed in her next blind she "accidentally" slid her fur top a bit lower. It never hurt to distract your opponent.

The next few hands were more mixed. Solveig won a few, though couldn't quite keep track of how many - the elf had lit a fresh bowl, and the sweet-smelling smoke she puffed across the table had Solveig feeling dizzy. The half-orc bluffed shamelessly, and mocked the table whenever he won on a weak hand.

Then came a run of bad luck. Her carefully-constructed straight was crushed by the wizard's King's Court. She tried to bluff him on the next hand, but turned up nothing. Then, trying to staunch the losses, she folded, only to learn that the half-orc (gloating, staring at her tits) had been full of hot air.

She looked down and saw that, somehow, she was down to only 6 pence of her original fat purse. It was enough money to bed down in a stable tonight and buy a loaf of stale bread the next day.

The wizard quietly sorted his coins. The half-orc was leering again. "Out of money, sweetie? Need to run away with your tail between your legs?"

Solveig knew her luck would turn back- she just needed a few more hands of cards. The only object of any value she had left was her mace, which she dropped in the middle of the table. "How much?"

The half-orc scoffed. "I wouldn't give you halfpence for that. That iron isn't fit for a pot. Though if you really need the money," he licked his lips and pointed down at his crotch, "get under the table and put those pretty lips to work and I'll give you four pence for breakfast."

"You animals disgust me," said the elf, staring at nobody in particular. "We should have killed you all when we had the chance."

Solveig, to her shame, considered the half-orc's offer for a moment. She had sucked worse before- on a dare, or just following the spirit of the night. But four pence wasn't enough to win her money back.

"Look," Solveig said, "can you spot me a half-crown, just enough to buy back in? I'm good for the money, swear on my mother's hearth. I have work coming. There's a bounty on a drake, upcountry, that's been eating herds, and I know a man who's putting together an expedition to slay it. Please?"

There was a long pause. The half-orc sat back, stretched, played with a half-crown piece, drawing out the tension as he stared at her hungrily. Finally he sat forward.

"Fine, a half-crown. But. If you can't pay me back at the end of the night, you walk right into the kitchen and ask the cook to chop you up and send me a roast."

Solveig felt her heart thunder in her chest. It was the familiar excitement of standing on a precipice, of seeing a risk that almost dared you to take it. She should laugh in his face and walk away, she knew. Money went easily in her line of work, but it also came easily. There were always monsters that needed killing.

"You know, there's a perfectly good girl on the spit already," the wizard said, a little bit prim.

"It's fucking catgirl again. They've had nothing but catgirl all week. I'm tired of my dinner having fucking hairballs and licking its own asshole."

He did have a point about the menu. Catgirls were numerous and, when in heat, slutty enough to be easily talked onto the spit. Solveig had seen tonight's entree being prepared. Two barmaids had held her down, one frantically making out with her, the other fingerfucking her, as the chef tried to line up the spit. The doomed kitten had been practically humping its sharp tip.

"I can't believe you're actually considering eating *that*," the elf said, acid. "You don't know where it's been."

"Better than that rabbit food you eat, Lady Knife-Ears."

"That's *Duchess* Knife-Ears to you, swine."

It would be a gamble, sure. But Solveig was no stranger to gambling with her life. Adventuring was risky, death-or-glory business. She'd seen enough fellow adventurers die - impaled on goblin traps, eaten whole by a dragon, fucked to death by giants, cooked live by orcs - to know that nobody was invincible in her line of work. Risk was what she *did*. The consequences of failure made success all the sweeter.

She snatched the half-crown piece from the half-orc. "Deal me another hand. And you might as well give me all my money back now. It'll save you time."

The half-orc laughed. "If you really want to save time, go get some marinade from the kitchen."

The first hand went her way, confirming that fate had a plan here. The second didn't, but only by chance, the wizard drawing lucky at the last moment and beating her strong hand. The next few hands blurred. Visions of the catgirl's face rose to her mind unbidden, from the moment after the spit went in. The little tabby had a transcendent look, tense, glazed-eyed. Like she was having the biggest orgasm of her life.

Solveig flubbed a hand, accidentally discarded a Knight of Bells that she needed, lost the hand because of it. She was, she noticed, grinding against her chair slightly. She didn't stop. She didn't want to stop. It was dizzying, hurtling forward like this into the grasp of fate.

She was down to half of the money she had been spotted when the half-orc raised heavily. "You want your money back, honey? Come take it. I'm getting hungry." The wizard folded. The elf, in her diffident way, matched. Solveig considered her cards. She had a Knight-and-Page already, a strong hand, and she knew that the toothy man bluffed outrageously. She called. One big win, and she'd be back in profit. She just needed to coax all the money she could from her opponents. She slid her top down a bit lower and then, throwing away all pretense, dropped it to her waist. She shook her breasts at him. "Take a good look, because this is the closest you're getting."

He growled, bought another card, and raised with coins worth almost her entire bankroll. She matched. The elf, after a long slow pull on her pipe, folded.

The moment Solveig's last coin was in the center of the table, the half-orc threw down his hand with a savage shout of triumph. It was a King's Flush. He hadn't been bluffing.

*He hadn't been bluffing.*

He sat back, folded his arms, waited for her concession. A King's Flush was a crushingly good hand. He knew he'd won.

Solveig was thrumming with anxiety and anticipation and horniness. She felt ready to vibrate out of her seat. She stared numbly at the cards in her hand, that Knight-and-Page that had looked so promising just a moment ago. At the Queen of Roses she'd drawn on her last turn. She'd been so distracted that she hadn't properly considered what it meant for her hand.

Solveig slowly, calmly put down her Knight-and-his-Lady and claimed the pot.

The half-orc was silent as Solveig counted a half-crown out of her winnings and dropped it on the table before him. The remaining coins went into her purse. She knew a sign from Fate to quit when she saw one.

"Thank you for the game, gentlemen, and your Duchessness," she said, standing, "but I have to be off." The half-orc looked practically despondent. In a moment he had transformed from a leering manipulator into another pathetic drunk at the bar. Solveig smiled tauntingly down at him. As her old mentor had said, the best time to kick somebody is when they're down. She leaned over the table towards him, squeezing her breasts together. "Aww, don't be sad. Maybe the next meat on the spit won't be another catgirl." She showily turned to look at the tavern's central roasting fire, arching her back in the process to show off her curves. "Oh never mind. Next one is a calico, at least. Maybe she'll taste better?" The half-orc was practically drooling, like a hungry dog staring at a steak just out of reach. He looked like he wanted to jump from his chair and try to bite off a piece of her.

"Tell you what," Solveig said, putting one leg up on her chair, showing off toned, meaty thighs barely covered by a thin strip of loincloth. "While you're picking cat hair out of your teeth, you remember *this*," and she twitched that strip of fur aside, stroking two fingers down her exposed cunt, "and imagine a better meal."

The half-orc was staring at her the way a drowning man stares at a life preserver. "Please?" he begged. "I can see you're hot for it. Please." He fumbled in his purse for a moment, withdrawing a dented half-crown coin. "Any cut you can spare. I'm begging here."

Solveig had to admit that she was, in fact, hot for it. She ran her fingers in a tight little circle around her clit, saying nothing, letting the half-orc squirm. "Fine, a full crown. That's all your money back and more!" She said nothing, just gave a breathy little moan. "Two crowns! Is that what you want?"

"Every time I come here," the elf said, to nobody in particular, "I think I've seen the lowest, most pathetic behavior you animals have to offer. And every time you somehow disappoint me further."

The half-orc upended his coin-purse, counted frantically. He shoved the pile of coins, proceeds of a long, lucky night of card-sharping, across the table to her. "Six crowns, forty-something pence. Any cut. I'm so tired of eating catgirl."

The wizard was chuckling now, enjoying his companion's despair. It was an extortionate price. Had Solveig offered herself whole in the Butcher's Market, she would have been lucky to sell for a half-crown. She knew a good deal when she saw one.

And she was, she had to admit, horny for it.

"One breast," she said, level.

"Yes."

She scooped the money into her purse. It bulged at the seams. "Come." She strode towards the kitchen, the hungry half-orc scrambling to his feet behind her.

She took a seat in the cramped little cooking area, letting the half-orc negotiate drunkenly with the chef. She just sat back, played with herself, let the pleasant frisson of anticipation wash over her. She made eye contact with the spitted calico, now turning slowly over a roaring fire. She could swear the dead little catgirl's face still had a dopey look of bliss.

The chef approached bearing a wickedly-sharp knife, which he had almost fully cleaned of the blood of his last victim. Solveig pointed him at her left breast, the one which always got in the way when she drew a bow. She closed her eyes, stuck out her chest, let the heat build in her.

It was a very sharp knife. One moment she felt the press of steel at the base of her left breast, and the next the cut was done. The bloom of pain was followed by an orgasm, and she tensed, the accumulated weight of the evening's emotions hitting her like a hammer blow. She moaned and writhed like a catgirl in heat, blood trickling down her taut torso.

When she was spent she bandaged the wound with a scrap of cloth the chef had left on a nearby table for her, and departed without a backwards glance. She was drunk and horny and richer than she'd been in a long time, and she knew this evening would make a good story someday. All the best stories leave a scar, so people know you're not bullshitting them. Tonight she'd find a nice inn with a feather bed and a warm bath. Tomorrow she'd find another job; maybe the drake, maybe something a bit more daring.

It had been, she decided, a great night out.