The Captive God

Chapter 1 - The Crash

The jungle was a green inferno, alive with the shrieks of birds and the hum of insects. Daniel’s small cargo plane had sputtered, then plummeted, tearing through the canopy before slamming into a clearing.

He was a lean, wiry pilot, 32 years old, with a chiseled jaw and a body honed by years of hiking and climbing—175 pounds of muscle and grit.

Now, he was bruised, disoriented, but alive, crawling from the wreckage with a pounding headache and a fractured radio.

He didn’t hear them approach. Shadows moved in the trees, silent and swift. Then, a dart stung his neck, and the world went black.

When he woke, he was bound, wrists and ankles tied with vines, lying on a woven mat in a vast, torchlit hut.

The air was thick with the scent of roasted fruit, boiled roots, and something sweeter—fermented sap, maybe.

Around him stood women, towering and muscular, their skin glistening with sweat and painted with red and black dyes.

Their arms were thick as his thighs, their abs carved like stone, their thighs powerful enough to crush bone.

They wore minimal clothing—woven straps and leather bands that accentuated their strength.

Each carried a spear or machete, and their eyes, sharp and unyielding, fixed on him.

The tallest, a woman with braided hair adorned with feathers, stepped forward.

Her biceps flexed as she crossed her arms, her voice low and commanding in a language he couldn’t understand.

She gestured, and another woman, equally imposing, knelt beside him, holding a wooden bowl filled with a thick, creamy liquid.

Her gaze was cold, but her lips curled into a faint, predatory smile.

“Where am I?” Daniel rasped, struggling against the vines. “Who are you?”

The braided woman spoke again, her tone sharp.

The kneeling woman forced the bowl to his lips, tipping it until the liquid—sweet, rich, like coconut mixed with honey—flooded his mouth. He choked, swallowing reflexively, the warmth spreading through his chest.

His head swam, hunger he hadn’t noticed before roaring to life.

“Stop!” he gasped, but the woman’s grip was iron, and the bowl didn’t waver.

He drank, the liquid spilling down his chin, until the bowl was empty. His stomach felt heavy, his mind foggy. The braided woman nodded, and the others murmured, their voices a low chant.

Daniel’s heart pounded. He was a prisoner, that much was clear. But why? And why were they feeding him?