Tales of the Snake Men: Book Two – Chapter 2
Chapter 2: Dragged to the Pit
Captured during a Horde ambush just outside the Serpentis jungle, Kobra Khan had made the ultimate sacrifice: himself. So his King and brethren could escape.
“Becoming the thing you have to be… just to survive it.”
That whisper still echoed in Kobra Khan’s mind. Even now—shackled, bruised, and barely standing—it slithered deeper than pain. For three days, Leech and Grizzlor tried to break him. Fangs, claws, toxins. Even Leech’s cursed siphoning, draining strength and soul with every breath. But nothing worked. Not even the worst of it drew a word from the Snake General.
But Hordak did not tolerate failure. And he had one method left.
“Bring him,” the voice ordered—cold and absolute.
“Let the Slime… introduce itself.”
The chains pulled tight. Even now, Khan thrashed with what strength remained, his forked tongue lashing in defiance as two Horde Troopers dragged him across the steel corridor.
“Your freaks failed—now you turn to fairy tales?” he spat, voice cracking under strain.
“Is that what’s left of the mighty Horde? Storytime and shadows?”
Kobra Khan had always dismissed the stories. Whispers among Eternia’s darker corners spoke of the grotesque machine buried deep within the Fright Zone.
“A myth,” Khan had spat once, coiled among his fellow Snake Men.
“Just Horde propaganda. Some bogeyman tale to frighten the weak.”
Even King Hiss hadn’t spoken of it directly. Perhaps he too thought it was legend. Or perhaps he feared it enough to keep the truth buried. But now—dragged in chains, bruised and snarling, Kobra Khan realized how wrong he had been.
Khan’s feet scraped against the stone floor as he stumbled, flanked by leering Horde Troopers and mocked by Grizzlor’s guttural laughter.
The shadow of the pit loomed ahead, carved into the black stone like a gaping wound. The air grew thick with heat and moisture, like the breath of something ancient exhaling from below.
He dug his heels in for a moment—not out of fear, he told himself, but out of strategy.
“This is just another scare tactic,” he thought, fangs clenched.
“Smoke and bones. Psychological warfare. Hordak always favored theatrics.”
But still… that scent. A sickly sweet rot, like decomposing jungle fruit soaked in venom. It coiled into his nostrils and made his tongue twitch in revulsion.
“Slime that thinks? Slime that speaks?” he had mocked the tales.
“A pit that breaks warriors without ever drawing blood?”
Still thrashing against the troopers, Khan was dragged to his last foothold of freedom. Then he saw it—and everything stopped. The myth wasn’t a tale anymore. It was real. And it was hungry. He gasped, as every story he’d once mocked came roaring back.
He had laughed then. He wasn’t laughing now.
The pit was deeper than he imagined. Made of stone, blackened with age and warped with heat, like it had risen from the core of the planet. The stone itself was unnaturally cold, even in the blazing heat of day. Jagged steps led into the heart of it. Its inner walls were slick with black grime and claw marks—proof of past struggles, none of which had ended in freedom.
At its center was bare stone, cracked and stained with a thousand ghosts’ worth of Slime. It glistened wet under a sky that suddenly felt much farther away. There was no wind down here. No sound but the slow, wet drip from above.
He looked up.
That thing—the skull— was no ancient relic. It was a grotesque monument to suffering, a massive dinosaur’s skull stretched in a permanent, leering grin. Long dead but leering as if aware.
The claw — he saw it now — curved like a predator’s talon. It stirred, waiting for him. The two Horde Troopers pulled and Khan took one step forward. He didn’t resist. Not because he’d accepted it—because something in his legs refused to move. The pit felt him. Like it breathed. Like it watched.
The face on the wall – carved into the stone wall like a god’s curse, loomed the snarling visage of Hordak himself. It wasn’t just a symbol—it was a presence.
He saw the marks on the stone—scratches. Deep grooves where claws or fingers tried to escape. Blood in some places. Burnt residue in others. The stone pit wasn’t a place to stand, it was a place to surrender.
Another pull. His foot scraped forward—just inches—and still he stared, frozen. He hadn’t realized he’d moved. The claw twitched again, closer now. Closer than it should be.
His stomach turned, and not from fear — no, never fear. He was a Snake Man. Born of venom and deception. He had faced Skeletor, survived ambushes by He-Man himself. No machine, no trick of Hordak’s, could tame his will.
But still… something primal stirred at the base of his spine.
Khan’s breath was fast now, his scales prickling beneath his armor. He didn’t want to admit he was afraid. But something ancient in him—the instinct that guided prey—screamed at him to break the Horde Troopers grasp and run.
And yet… he couldn’t move.
He glanced around. The Horde Troopers held him firm, their iron grips unmoved. Red optics stared blankly ahead—unblinking. Grizzlor grinned like an animal who knew its prey was finished struggling.
The troopers dragged Khan forward one final step… then stopped. They were waiting. Everything was waiting. Only one voice remained.
And high above, Hordak watched with arms folded, cape fluttering like the wings of a bat.
There was no turning back.
“This isn’t real. This is a myth,” he repeated to himself.
But the Slime that drooled from the maw above pulsed with intent. And for the first time in years, Khan felt doubt.
Khan’s body tensed. Muscles coiled like serpents beneath his scales. The trooper on Khan’s right reached for his arm again—but this time, Kobra Khan struck first. With a sharp twist and a reptilian roar, he jerked his elbow free, slamming it hard into the Trooper’s visor. Sparks flew. The Trooper crumpled sideways, clutching its faceplate.
Khan snarled, fangs bared, and lunged at the second. He slammed his clawed fist into the Trooper’s gut, driving it back against the stone with a hollow clang.
“One more strike. One more chance. That’s all I need,” he thought.
He was free—for a moment.
Khan’s eyes darted—stone wall, a sputtering wall torch, a narrow service tunnel behind a rusted grate. There. He pivoted hard, claws digging into the floor, legs coiling for a sprint.
But he didn’t make it three strides.
Grizzlor exploded from the shadows with a guttural roar, slamming into him like a battering ram.
The fur-covered beast lunged with a wild grunt, and the two collided in a snarling mess of claws and teeth. Khan bit down hard into the brute’s matted shoulder, drawing a bloodied howl of rage—but the weight of Grizzlor pinned him long enough for the Troopers to recover and swarm.
Grizzlor roared and wrapped one thick arm around Khan’s throat, squeezing tight, while the other clamped down around Khan’s wrist.
“I don’t care if you live, lizard.” Grizzlor’s snarl was low, close—breath hot against Khan’s ear.
“I just wanna see your face… when the slime starts whispering your name.”
Khan thrashed like a beast in a snare, but the numbers overwhelmed him. One Trooper lunged in and jabbed a pain stick into his abdomen—and white-hot agony exploded through his gut.
Khan screamed, back arching in shock. His knees buckled.
Another jab—then another.
Over and over, the stick pulsed its electric sting through his core, until he could no longer keep his footing and his legs gave out.
He writhed in agony, spitting and snarling—but the pain only stunned him. It didn’t tame him.
“I’ll kill you all!” he roared, fangs dripping, even as two Troopers seized his arms.
They yanked him down, dragging him across the stone, claws screeching against the stone surface. He fought every inch—twisting like a python, trying to sink his fangs into anything that came close. But they were too many.
The pit was waiting.
They shoved him into the stone pit, forced his arms up into the crimson restraints at either side of the platform.
He fought like a cornered beast, but the bony claw emerged from below — rattling, hungry —snapping tight around his waist. It gripped with a terrible intent, locking him into place. He snarled and spat his venom mist in defiance, but the pit didn’t flinch.
“You think this will hold me?” he hissed. Muscles straining.
“I’ll snap your bones like twigs!” he roared.
Khan writhed, every muscle fighting, every breath a snarl of disbelief. But the claw only held him tighter. His claws scraped uselessly against the Slime-slick stone beneath him as his feet settled in the ooze. He hissed low, guttural—a sound born of both rage and revulsion.
“What… what is this filth?” he growled, teeth bared.
“It’s just Slime. Just… Slime.”
But his legs trembled. He tried to lift one foot, to shake the muck off, but the Slime clung tighter, pulling, not just physically, but inside—through the soles of his feet, into his calves. It was warm, pulsing, strangely intimate. Not a grab—but a caress.
He thrashed against the claw’s grip, muscles bulging, but the sensation only grew. The more he moved, the deeper his feet sank. The more he resisted, the more the Slime seemed to reward him, sending slow waves of molten pleasure crawling up his legs.
Between his toes, it squirmed and writhed with purposeful intent. At times it tingled like static, and others it was almost soothing—almost. But beneath every wave of warmth, there was something deeper: a sensation like sinking, as if the pit wanted to draw him down—not just physically, but mentally.
And worst of all… it felt good. Not in a way he could admit—but in a way that made his knees tremble. The Slime wasn’t simply covering his feet. It was welcoming them. Inviting them to stay. Promising rest. Promising surrender.
“Get off me!” he snarled, voice cracking. “Let go! I said let go!”
But the Slime didn’t care.
The Slime began to hum softly around him, as if amused by his defiance. It pressed between his toes, slipped along his arches, massaged his heels with unnerving patience. And in a terrible, quiet moment, as the pool of Slime crept higher, he realized the most horrifying truth of all:
His feet weren’t trying to move anymore.
And that terrified him more than anything.
A low mechanical rumble stirred through the chamber.
“Begin,” Hordak commanded, his voice laced with anticipation.
He stepped forward to watch—eager to witness the Snake Men’s top General crack, break, and rise again… as Horde.
Grizzlor let out a low, savage chuckle and grabbed the lever.
“You’re gonna wish you were dead, lizard,” he growled, eyes locked on Khan.
He pulled the lever with glee.
Khan braced—muscles tight, breath shallow. His body refused to move, but his mind raced.
There has to be a way out.
I can still fight this.
I’ve survived worse… haven’t I?
But as the air thickened… as the ooze began to move… He felt something looking back. Above him, the massive dinosaur skull loomed, its hollow eye sockets glaring down with an almost predatory malice. The jaw of the skull cracked open as the grotesque Slime began to ooze from its depths, thick and viscous, pooling and dripping in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Khan’s heart raced in his chest as the Slime trickled down from the skull, its putrid stench invading his nostrils.
He now knew the myth was real.
