Plateau of Leng
Somewhen
Tennant Tummnas resisted the urge to scream in high-pitch despair as he felt himself grabbed about the legs by the second Corpse Eater's massive fore-paws. It was even larger and bulkier than the first; a massive corpulent bulk of a morbid gut spilling over rotting loin-cloth, ponderous necrotic glands swaying gravidly with it's motion. A she-bull. And Tummnas had just killed it's mate. Frabjous day. He did let go of a curse when he felt the latest panzerfaust he'd been prepping slip from his grasp, clattering to the ashy ground below.
‘Rut my life.’
Tummnas could see service rifle rounds, .75 caliber minie-balls, splattering uselessly across the bulk of the thing, setting the blubbery mass of degenerate proto-matter rippling. The part of him that was hyper aware in the moment of all sensory data took note of Colour Sargeant Mourne's cursing and slapping of a private with swagger-stick to prevent him launching a grenade that might kill their Tennant, the which was much appreciated, but didn't do much solve his most pressing problem.
Ah, here she was, opening her massive maw to take him in; idly, he wondered if she wanted to bite off his head first, or if she was going for the whole goat at once, as it were. As she lifted him, hanging upside down now into line with her gaping jaws he was ready with his service revolver already presented, the which he emptied with only as much time taken to keep the rounds going in the general direction of the barn door sized mouth seeking his life, which is to say, as rutting quickly as he could press the trigger, the shots making his vision go misty with stinking sulfuric smoke, then his eyes caught something green and grey at once moving towards him.
‘Seriously, rut my rutting my life.’
Without much, if any, conscious thought he was already letting go, throwing away more like, the empty handgun and grabbing for his ancestral blade before, without any further ado, the bitch tried to stuff him directly into her gapping maw, direct and whole. There wasn't much of his attention to spare for the writhing worm-teeth reaching for him, seeking to pierce, rend, and drink, nor the sizzling sounds of acid burning skin and cloth and leather as her mouth-slime dribbled all over him. Yes, fingers grasp sweat-stained leather and wire-wrapped hilt and sword in hand, he twists his body and thrust up with all the desperation, hope, and very fiber of his being focused on the act, lips whispering entreaty to the Three-Fold Font-of-Being, so rarely invoked by his kind, in both humility and pride.
‘“Three-in-One have at thee, servant of the Dragon, rut you!”
His last act before impact was to screw his eyes shut and take a ragged gasp of air before clamping his mouth shut. This was going rut, hard. Impact. The mouth of the beast was suddenly filled with the corrosive bile that passed for the abomination's blood, the pain nearly knocked him out cold, but he couldn't let himself scream, lest any of the stuff enter his throat and lungs. Best case he would die in burning agony. Worst case, Tummnas didn't entertain the worst case, but torturous un-life as shambling paraody of life wasn't on the to-do list today.
‘Ok, third hurdle down, rutting now what?’