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luprand! His norse warrior, Róðolvur, has to save a kingdom from a strange, fat-inducing curse, all while fighting off the weight himself. Enjoy!
He headed out to the city and collected enough supplies for three days' travel— one day for travelling to the observatory, one for the return, and one just in case. Actually, he ended up with a week's worth of rations, though he didn't remember asking for that much— then again, the shopkeep, when she realized what his business was, proved very eager to assist hm in any way she could, while her husband was gorging himself on the rest of their supply. Perhaps she had given him so much partially out of eagerness to save Stierbraun, and to remove temptation from her tubby husband's path. As he headed out of the city, he frowned— there was a lot of impractical food packed away, such as eggs, fully baked pastries, and ham— things that would go bad if he didn't eat them soon. Róðolvur sighed, turning his eyes to the sky out of exasperation— he hated seeing waste, so he grabbed an apple strudel and bit into it. At least no one could scoff at Stierbraun's talents for baking.
The day's worth of travel through the rolling plains of Stierbraun's heartland was uneventful and smooth, but without stopping for rest and being on his feet all day, Róðolvur decided to set up camp as soon as he spotted the tower; and it proved impossible to miss. Sat atop a craggy cliff that served as the vanguard for the mountain range that would eventually form the kingdom's eastern border. A tall, solidly built tower of white stone, its domed top was built of beaten bronze, starting to turn green from age and exposure to the elements. In the gathering dusklight, he could spot torchlight along the stone wall that ringed the tower, and he smiled grimly. The Order was being terribly obliging, waiting for him instead of fleeing and spoiling any sense of challenge from this quest.
All the same, he felt incredibly tired— he still had two days to scale the tower, and as he glanced up at the sky, he saw the moon was not yet full. He settled next to his campfire and sighed— he could close his eyes for just a moment before dinner…
When Róðolvur snorted awake, it was mid-morning. Bleary eyed, he sat up, feeling oddly slow and heavy— no doubt, the wolf had slept on something that had left him stiff, but he must have been more exhausted than he realized if he had slept all the way to morning without eating… he then honed in on his pack of supplies, and gasped.
Every ration of his was gone— not so much as a crumb was left!
"Damn me for a fool!" Róðolvur snarled, thinking of how galling it was that some lowly thief had managed to catch him unawares— but then, he felt something. His face wrinkling with consternation, he looked down at his middle. Where once he had the solid, toned waist of a seasoned warrior, even the hint of sculpted abs pushing against his plush white fur, there was now a heavy, round, and slightly sensitive mass, a butterball gut that, the wolf realized with sinking realization, was packed with a week's worth of rations.
"How… How could this be?" he muttered, running a hand over his head, ears splaying to the sides as he squeezed at the mass hanging off of him, wincing slightly as he did— it was far softer than any part of a warrior's body should be, in Róðolvur's mind. He began to pace, but his usual gait was making this new belly bounce and sway that he found distracting. Snarling softly, he tried to think— he was completely without food, now. He would have to forage, or raid from the tower. Surely the Order had to eat something, after all, and already Róðolvur began to think about how some steak and eggs, perhaps with some potatoes and pale ale would just hit the spot… he shook his head as he began to feel his mouth water.
"By the Gods!" He growled, smacking the side of his head as if he could dislodge these hungry thoughts. "What is this?" His eyes then turned towards the tower, and the Order. Róðolvur's lips thinned as one answer surfaced to the forefront of his mind: the curse was now working on him, as well. He looked to the rest of his equipment, and gripped Isbrótari tightly in his hand as his eyes drifted back to the tower. He had no idea how fast acting this curse was, but he wasn't going to let himself blow up into a bloated parody of himself without a fight.
luprand! His norse warrior, Róðolvur, has to save a kingdom from a strange, fat-inducing curse, all while fighting off the weight himself. Enjoy!He headed out to the city and collected enough supplies for three days' travel— one day for travelling to the observatory, one for the return, and one just in case. Actually, he ended up with a week's worth of rations, though he didn't remember asking for that much— then again, the shopkeep, when she realized what his business was, proved very eager to assist hm in any way she could, while her husband was gorging himself on the rest of their supply. Perhaps she had given him so much partially out of eagerness to save Stierbraun, and to remove temptation from her tubby husband's path. As he headed out of the city, he frowned— there was a lot of impractical food packed away, such as eggs, fully baked pastries, and ham— things that would go bad if he didn't eat them soon. Róðolvur sighed, turning his eyes to the sky out of exasperation— he hated seeing waste, so he grabbed an apple strudel and bit into it. At least no one could scoff at Stierbraun's talents for baking.
The day's worth of travel through the rolling plains of Stierbraun's heartland was uneventful and smooth, but without stopping for rest and being on his feet all day, Róðolvur decided to set up camp as soon as he spotted the tower; and it proved impossible to miss. Sat atop a craggy cliff that served as the vanguard for the mountain range that would eventually form the kingdom's eastern border. A tall, solidly built tower of white stone, its domed top was built of beaten bronze, starting to turn green from age and exposure to the elements. In the gathering dusklight, he could spot torchlight along the stone wall that ringed the tower, and he smiled grimly. The Order was being terribly obliging, waiting for him instead of fleeing and spoiling any sense of challenge from this quest.
All the same, he felt incredibly tired— he still had two days to scale the tower, and as he glanced up at the sky, he saw the moon was not yet full. He settled next to his campfire and sighed— he could close his eyes for just a moment before dinner…
When Róðolvur snorted awake, it was mid-morning. Bleary eyed, he sat up, feeling oddly slow and heavy— no doubt, the wolf had slept on something that had left him stiff, but he must have been more exhausted than he realized if he had slept all the way to morning without eating… he then honed in on his pack of supplies, and gasped.
Every ration of his was gone— not so much as a crumb was left!
"Damn me for a fool!" Róðolvur snarled, thinking of how galling it was that some lowly thief had managed to catch him unawares— but then, he felt something. His face wrinkling with consternation, he looked down at his middle. Where once he had the solid, toned waist of a seasoned warrior, even the hint of sculpted abs pushing against his plush white fur, there was now a heavy, round, and slightly sensitive mass, a butterball gut that, the wolf realized with sinking realization, was packed with a week's worth of rations.
"How… How could this be?" he muttered, running a hand over his head, ears splaying to the sides as he squeezed at the mass hanging off of him, wincing slightly as he did— it was far softer than any part of a warrior's body should be, in Róðolvur's mind. He began to pace, but his usual gait was making this new belly bounce and sway that he found distracting. Snarling softly, he tried to think— he was completely without food, now. He would have to forage, or raid from the tower. Surely the Order had to eat something, after all, and already Róðolvur began to think about how some steak and eggs, perhaps with some potatoes and pale ale would just hit the spot… he shook his head as he began to feel his mouth water.
"By the Gods!" He growled, smacking the side of his head as if he could dislodge these hungry thoughts. "What is this?" His eyes then turned towards the tower, and the Order. Róðolvur's lips thinned as one answer surfaced to the forefront of his mind: the curse was now working on him, as well. He looked to the rest of his equipment, and gripped Isbrótari tightly in his hand as his eyes drifted back to the tower. He had no idea how fast acting this curse was, but he wasn't going to let himself blow up into a bloated parody of himself without a fight.
Category Story / Fat Furs
Species Unspecified / Any
Size 120 x 120px
File Size 246 kB
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