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The months had blended together into a thick fog. Gale had given up on separating the Netherese Orb from his person. He had moved onto more fruitful pursuits. Like wine.
There was no great satisfaction to be gained from feeding the orb temporarily away from the abyss. None like what the better part of a bottle of Thayan red imparted, settling into his stomach, warm in his orb-weakened veins. And: a man still had to eat. He could not sustain himself on pilfered arcane items alone.
Faced with the yawning, undetermined void of time before him, Gale figured that he now had all the reason in the Material Plane to whittle away his days with such tasks as rendering fat from succulent duck breast. Or spending hours hand-piping buttery mashed potatoes into twice-baked rosettes, just kissed by crispy, caramelized edges. Or crafting multi-layered abominations of cakes, crammed with fine cocoa and preserved curd fillings and all manner of deluxe niceties that would serve him no purpose when the ticking time bomb of unknown length in his chest finally detonated.
What was the point of abstention when faced with the inevitable? He had to keep himself busy somehow. The Orb benevolently spared him just enough energy to clean his dishes.
Speaking of the inevitable. He had left his glamours on for a few weeks now, tempting the orb with other delights. He was running low on Weave rations. A part of him no longer cared for such vanities. He was a disgraced former archmage, a new and hopeless recluse. Who did he have to impress? Certainly not himself. That ship had long drawn its anchor from Deepwater Harbor.
Gale twisted off the enchanted ring from his right hand. It took some effort, oddly stuck at the lower knuckle until one good series of twisting yanks dislodged it, leaving a lighter indent on his finger. He closed his eyes as he pressed it to his chest. It was gone in barely a few seconds of swirling tendrils and glowing purple light, the last shreds of his so-called dignity.
Gale stepped in front of the floor-length mirror in his dust-coated entry. He took a deep swig from the open bottle by his left hand, finishing it off, before giving himself a once-over.
And there he was. So this was the great former archmage, The Gale of Waterdeep.
Flecks of gray throughout an unkempt beard. Purple shadows under red-ringed eyes. The dark veins of it started through his cheek, down past a jawline he didn’t recognize at first glance. Gale blinked in genuine surprise. The sharp angle of his nose stood alone in his face now, the only linear feature besides his thick brows, which were now accompanied by fleshy cheeks and a jaw that threatened to multiply.
The spidery lines of the orb's claws in him trailed past the covered musculature of his chest, buried under a layer of fat. Gods above, he had tits now. Little oblong teardrops, topped with peaked brown nipples. He could cup them in his palms, clench and unclench his hands to test their weight and heft. Just like he was doing right now. He squeezed again, then dropped his hands, feeling oddly guilty.
He was barely past chest level.
There were tiny creases of fat under his arms. A new plushness covered his shoulders. It bloomed across his torso, settling comfortably into wider hips that surged over the sides of his breeches. Gravity did its own accessory work with the blatant hang of his stomach over his waistband, striped with several fresh, red streaks. There were matching stretch marks on his left side, one mirroring the curve under his navel. He brought his hands to his wide ass and squeezed. They did not meet once-firm muscle.
His thighs were wider too. But Gale was stuck on the visible bloat of his middle. He had never cut a slim figure in his life, but not to this extent. He dragged his eyes back to his body in the mirror with jittery trepidation.
He was visibly full from supper. He could feel it. Seeing it was an entirely different, novel beast. Gale pinched the area directly under his newly softened chest. It had little give, tender under the pads of his fingers. An odd urge possessed him all at once and he opened his palm, unthinking, giving the top of his stomach a gentle slap. The resulting sound made him blush. Full was a charitable descriptor.
Really, he had gorged himself, and quite thoroughly. It wasn’t a one-off occasion either. Certainly not when he could drag his hands down through the thick whorls of curly, dark hair at the crest of his stuffed stomach, down to the soft underhang of his belly. Tangible evidence of his sequestered activities. Pure, rippled fat under his fingertips. He rolled it between his fingers. It was less of a pot belly; more of a gut.
If that weren’t enough, Gale could sink his index finger down into his navel, to a degree where a substantial part disappeared from plain sight. There was depth to it, an accumulation of excess borne from clumsy attempts to drown away his sorrows. He slid the pad of his finger in slow circles against the inside of his navel, transfixed by the small waves of pleasure it sent down to his half-hard cock.
Huh.
He met his own gaze in the mirror. His mouth hung open. His breath was shallow and fast. He was no stranger to wanton inebriation, but this was new.
He liked what he saw.
So be it if he had changed in tandem with the unfillable void buried in his chest. In a way it made him feel some measure of power, an odd sense of control at the patent lack of it. Two could play at the game of endless consumption. Which party would collapse under the weight of their desires first?
There was only one way to find out. If all he could occupy himself now with was Material Plane delights, that’s what he would do. He clearly did a damn fine job of it.
He had experimented with enchanting a lockbox for freezing some extras but even then, with his weakened state, there was only so much he could save. There were always copious leftovers. He tore a substantial chunk off of a crusty loaf of bread, submerging it in salted butter as he contemplated his options.
There was still a portion or two of roast over the hearth. A low growl from his stomach reminded him that he was still a bit hungry, against all reasonable odds. Gale availed himself of a generous helping, settling down toward his kitchen table, piled with equal heapings of cook books and baked goods.
Rich, fatty brisket did the job of converting vegetables into something worth eating when laid atop them and gently, lovingly, slowly roasted to perfection. Carrots and potatoes melted against his palate, along with earthy thyme and piquant garlic. He razed down the better part of his bowl before his stomach had any chance to register a complaint. Gale soothed at it with the heel of his palm, pressing down and in and up and back, a motion he realized he’d perfected to instinct without his direct knowledge.
Another heavy pour of wine was sorely needed. Gale helped himself to the rest of the nearest bottle. He leaned over to tear another thick piece of bread from the loaf in front of him; instead, his hands closed around the last of the loaf. In a fugue state, Gale sopped up the paltry remnants of his bowl.
He had ended up reclined in his chair, breathing shallowly, dazed. The last few slices of pear and ginger compote tart from yesterday’s stabs at preoccupation were just out of easy reach. The spiced filling and flaky crust would be the perfect accompaniment to a rich meal, the fresh cloves and cardamom, the tinge of fiery brandy for depth of flavor… but he would have to move… Ugh. His mouth watered. He groaned, despondent and frustrated.
Wait. He could try to conjure a serviceable mage hand. It wouldn’t be perfect—nothing he’d done with magic after the orb was or would ever be—but it could work. His chances of success were bolstered by the boost of Weave from the glamor ring since the orb was freshly fed. Past any emotion resembling shame, Gale cast.
He was rewarded with one spectral, blue hand. It was enough. Relief washed over him as the hand brought the biggest remaining slice forward. Gale bit down, rich lard-specked crust and spices filling his senses over brandied pear.
He groaned happily, taking another large, spectrally-proffered bite. A light dusting of crumbs settled on the swell of his belly as he chewed. He spread his palms wide on either side to feel the heft of it, letting his thumbs rub diagonally against the sore spots above his navel.
If only Mystra could see him now…. She never wanted anything to do with his physical form, anyway. This—all of it—was his own doing. He would indulge himself in the consequences of his own actions. He’d always been greedy; to others it just reflected back as ambition. He could finish the slice, even have another. What else did he have to do?
He paused, uncomfortably tight and stretched. He dug his left knuckles into a tender spot above his navel, rocking them down, and hiccuped, sharply. He moaned with relief mixed with pain as it jostled him.
Just to test, Gale repeated the motion. He stifled a cascade of hiccups with his other palm as the mage hand dutifully waited with a second slice of tart. Another swill of the wine goblet to coat his throat and he opened his mouth: one hand clutched at his chest, the other curled around the fat spilling over the sides of his breeches. He would feel what he had done to his own, physical body. He would be the one with the power to reduce himself to his basest instincts.
Gods, he was out of breath. He gulped at the air, overheated. Sweat beaded at his graying temples. A long, brassy belch escaped him. In his surprise, Gale forgot the waiting mage hand and had a mouth full of tart before he could blink. He allowed himself a small whine around his mouthful, keeping his mouth closed to prevent another surprise intrusion as he worked through the large bite.
There was a slice and a half left. Neither were particularly small. He was so gods-damned full, but he wasn’t done, and frankly Gale wasn’t sure he could call off the mage hand at this point. It took a magnanimous amount of effort to cast from a weakened state. Whether he wanted to or not, he would have to finish it all until the hand disappeared. He found he didn’t hate the thought; rather, it sent a delightful lurch through his low belly, towards his burgeoning erection.
Gale lazily opened his mouth and let the hand feed him another enormous piece. It was not gentle, poorly cast with singular focus. Gale struggled around the mouthful, hips squirming against the chair, pushing his belly forward to give it room against his spread thighs. He could—with tremendous, waning effort—modulate the pace of the hand just slightly to stop him from choking when it shoved more tart into his mouth.
Each swallow felt laborious in a new and uniquely torturous way. He swore he could feel every bite settling heavy in his overloaded, swollen stomach. He let his neck rest on the kitchen chair’s carved back, slumped and struggling, past stuffed. At least there was a part of him that could be temporarily wrangled into submission, past simple satiety. He would dive headfirst into this feeling faced with the alternative, unceasing ache of other arcane hungers.
There was a fresh—blessedly, blessedly last—slice of tart directly at eye level. Gale rubbed at the crest of his belly until he dislodged more room. This time: a low belch. Several followed in uncontrollable succession. He groaned low and wantonly, panting. He would let his tongue loll out the side of his lips if he knew it wouldn’t invite more tart before he was ready.
Or he should. No sense in delaying it. Go on, he urged the hand. Do it. The hand complied. He was always a fool for risk. The pressure was unbearable, dangerous pain-pleasure which made him feel near bursting. But there was just enough friction in his reclined state to be useful for other pursuits: namely, his sorely neglected, unflagging erection.
Gale pushed his gut down against his straining erection. He felt himself grow wetter at the tip with a pathetic dribble of precum, enveloped in his own excess. The motion stirred another low belch out of him. The hand took the opportunity to shove in another piece of tart.
Half a slice still remained. Gale whined miserably, slowing the rocking motion of his hips. If he wanted to last he’d have to focus back on the damned tart. He never wanted to taste spiced brandy again. Gale held a hand in front of his mouth to stop the unrelenting advance of the mage hand as he attempted to catch his breath. He curled his other hand around a small, new roll under his chest, kneading his fingers in deep for any sense of grounding distraction.
He let his fingertips trace the distended crest of his gut, tangling through the sweat-soaked dark hair. He remembered his earlier experiments. Tentatively, he pushed a finger into the stretched divot of his navel. Oh, gods, did that feel even better now. He tested the pressure, pushing in, and forced out another deep belch. The relief was near-orgasmic. He did not yet want to spill, so he lowered the hand covering his mouth.
He felt divine: or as close as he might ever get, considering. Gale rocked down again. The wooden chair creaked in protest below him. His belly groaned angrily at him. Hopefully one of them would win out, and that winner would be Gale.
Somewhere along the line this had turned into a twisted, bizarre point of pride for him. He could get through these last bites. Unabashedly, Gale moaned and whimpered around every new mouthful. He was getting so close. He rutted his stomach down again for emphasis, feeling a familiar tightness drawing him towards a delightful precipice. He didn’t last. The last piece of tart fell to the table as the mage hand finally vanished.
He was filthy and quite satisfied with himself. A dark purple, wet patch spreading on the front of his breeches. With great difficulty Gale used both hands as a counterweight to raise himself to standing. The last, small piece of tart taunted him from the table. He leaned over with a wince and a grunt, snatching the extra into his own hand.
He would draw himself a bath. Probably continue to pull at the arousal that rose again in him as he passed the hall mirror again. Gale allowed himself to preen, following the curve of his overfed frame with his eyes and hands in the mirror. The pronounced rip of fabric at his waistband was new. He patted himself contentedly with a small huff of amused laughter. More than that would be painful. With casual abandon, Gale dropped the last piece of tart into his mouth.