The jungle was thick, humid, and alive with strange sounds. You had wandered far off the beaten path, drawn by rumors of an uncharted region said to be home to ancient secrets. But what you found was something no map could have prepared you for.

Massive footprints in the mud were the first sign—far too large to be human. You barely had time to inspect them before the ground trembled. A shadow loomed. Then, you were surrounded.

They were towering figures, each at least twice your height. Crocodile women—muscular, scaled, and draped in tribal ornaments. Their eyes glinted with amusement as they closed in. One of the warriors, a thick-armed, broad-shouldered croc with ceremonial bands across her biceps, lifted you with ease like a toy.

“Little outsider,” she hissed, her voice thick with accent and pride. “You wander into our lands?”

Before you could speak, a chubby but commanding matriarch approached, her wide frame swaying with power. Her stomach jiggled with each step, but it was her feet—enormous, padded, calloused—that drew your gaze. She noticed. They always noticed.

“They always stare,” she chuckled, wiggling her thick toes in front of you. “They don’t believe our strength comes from our feet.”

Around you, dozens of crocodile women—some lean and fierce, others round and imposing—gathered in a semicircle. They all had different builds, but one thing was common among them: feet so large they could flatten a tree trunk—and they took pride in every inch.

You were taken to their village, nestled in a jungle basin carved from time. There, you learned their customs. Some of them flaunted their size with every step, challenging one another to foot-stomping contests that left the earth quaking. Others took pleasure in showing off their sheer width—placing your entire body between their soles just to prove how easily you could be dwarfed.

One especially brawny croc named J’kara, known as “the Crusher,” claimed you as her personal prize. She rested you at her feet every evening, making you rub and clean them as a ritual. Not out of cruelty, but as a tradition—they believed those who touched the feet of the mighty were blessed with resilience.

“You’re lucky,” she said one night, stretching her soles before your face. “Not many get to worship greatness.”

And yet, despite your situation, you began to understand them—not just their strength or pride, but their unity. Their feet were symbols of their connection to the land, their roots, and their dominance.

You were no longer just a lost traveler. You had become the “Footkeeper” — a strange title, yes, but one that earned you respect, protection… and endless, humbling duties.