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Just as it had for the earliest civilizations in the Days of Thunder, it started with bread.
There was plenty to do, even confined to his tower. The stereotype of wizards as lunatic isolates that left their libraries only for the most vital of errands existed for a reason: one could entertain oneself seemingly endlessly with only the array of books, magical artefacts, summons, projects... and, of course, food.
He had considered himself a person of refined tastes even before his isolation, but the discernment he had begun to develop should surely be considered a form of self-improvement.
Bread was one of the great joys of life, after all, and sources of joy were few and far between as of late– though it was not, Gale reminded himself, as if he deserved to feel joyful about anything he had done to himself.
He had always wanted to try his hand at baking, and after a quick look at a few of the references in his collection, along with one or two books on the subject Tara had brought for him of her own accord, he set to making his own loaves.
The first few were not particularly good– a bit overdone on the crust, for example, with the centre still doughy. Or a bit too full of air bubbles, with large pockets that made it difficult to actually spread any butter on a nice, thick slice once it was toasted. But it didn't take long to learn the ways of simple bread-making given the amount of time he had to experiment, and Gale prided himself on being a fast learner.
He did finish off the first few loaves before starting new ones. Even if it wasn't of quite the quality he could obtain from a local bakery, there was something appealing about a fresh, homemade, crusty loaf that made it easy to take a slice or two for breakfast, or with soup at lunch, or in the afternoon with a cup of tea, until he realised with an eager spark that it was about time to make another.
Once he had mastered the simple round loaf, he aimed higher, of course: simple mix-ins like seeds and nuts, different textures and shapes, some sweet and some more savoury. There was a particular recipe with garlic and rosemary he had repeated quite a few times until he was certain he had just about perfected it. The recipe as written had called for only two cloves of garlic, but with experimentation he had learned that three or four– and a bit more rosemary as well– suited it even better, and he was quite impressed with the results.
That evening was spent reading in his dusk-blue armchair, worn wool blanket comforting over his lap. He felt warm and sated after a few slices of said favourite bread dipped in a bit of olive oil, and with a hazy familiarity he turned the pages of one of his preferred reference works on abjuration between sips of Calishite tea. (Abjuration may have been a dull subject compared to most other schools of magic, but there was nothing that a good wizard could not make fascinating, and he only wished he had such a tome available to him when he was a much younger and less patient student of wizardry at Blackstaff.)
He reached for his plate absently and found it empty, but for a few crumbs; the rest of the loaf rested, still warm, on the counter in his kitchen.
Perhaps it was lazy to conjure a mage hand to bring it to him when he was already seated so cosily in his favourite armchair, but it was easy to write off as a bit of practice with common cantrips after the orb had left him incapable of more complex spells.
He played at being unsure of whether his magic capabilities had been gradually healing since the moment the orb first affected him or whether they were gradually worsening.
Worsening-- they were worsening.
But he maintained hope with some personal theories that perhaps his condition would deteriorate only to a point, after which he would gradually regain his abilities; or perhaps he had to reach some zero-point and be faced with nary a spark of the Weave before his body would be capable of truly recovering any touch of magical ability at all.
All this to say, it was not as mindless a task to cast a Mage Hand and send it across the room to slice the loaf of bread as he thought it should have been.
Still, the conjured hand wielded the serrated knife with practised ease and gently sliced another two thick pieces.
At some point the eating, too, had become a skill to stand alongside the baking.
Gale liked to think he was not the type to be excessively concerned with his figure. Not that he didn't care for his appearance, mind you, but that excessive vanity was associated with the sort of wizard he wasn't. His thoughts were reserved for greater subjects than his body-- though he did believe he was reasonably good-looking, regardless.
There was no doubt that there had been a change, though. At the first inkling that his waistline had gained a few inches he was willing to brush it off as mere coincidence, especially after the amount of roast he had eaten the previous evening. It was only after a good month and a half-- after an evening during which he had painstakingly avoided anything he thought could be considered overeating-- that he realised he had put on a bit of weight.
It was nothing unbecoming of a wizard, especially one of his age. The speed of one's metabolism didn't last forever, and a decidedly unathletic recluse like himself was likely overdue for a bit of additional padding. He was well aware it was due to the new hobby he had grown fond of-- but it was likely inevitable regardless, he figured, and a bit of simple transmutation would allow a bit more space at the waist of his belts for the slight curve of belly fat and widened the legs of his trousers to allow a bit more fullness in his thighs and his backside. Just this once, he thought to himself-- if it went any further, he would be sure to change his habits. But a bit of middle-aged weight was nothing to be ashamed of. It made him look more scholarly, he imagined, if anyone were even around to see it.
It was better to at least pretend that people were around, he thought. Too dangerous a road to go down to imagine that he might spend the rest of his life here in the tower. Too dangerous to allow himself to think about at all. He would not, he resolved. He would not.
It was another two tendays before a particularly filling bit of steak and kidney pie-- well, perhaps more than a bit -- made him realise the transmutation needed to be... adjusted.
He looked down at the way a soft bit of flab at his hips rolled thick and easy over the edge of his belt. There was no need to gorge himself so brazenly every night. It was unbecoming. Distracting from his greater ends, from his search for answers to the Netherese hollow in his chest.
If any such answers existed, a darker thought in the back of his mind reminded him.
Regardless, he resolved to keep the robes as they were until he lost this bit of plumpness.
The following morning, his fingers brushed over the remaining scones he had baked, a little tingle of eagerness in his gut. Quite a few remained, and they were so dense and filling...
He touched his belly, feeling the softness there, pinching at the convexity that stubbornly remained above his belt despite his good behaviour last night. He'd have only one.
It went quickly, the one, with a cup of morning tea. They wouldn't stay good forever, with the humidity in this season, and an enchantment to protect them was likely beyond his current abilities. And he still did feel quite hungry, and surely there wasn't weight to be gained from eating when he was hungry. It was only the overeating that needed to be curbed.
So he allowed himself a second.
There was a layered butteriness to them that was so appealing, he thought as he took another bite. Not the flakiness of laminated pastry, of course, but the way the thinnest shreds of still-cool butter in the dough left them moist and crumbly, dotted with blueberries seemed to glory in their coquettish hints of juicy, tart sweetness… truly, they were a perfect treat. It would be foolish to deny himself another. He was still at least a bit hungry.
He deluded himself in this way for another tenday, until one morning the bronze clasp of his belt would not meet around his burgeoning gut, despite him attempting— like he often had, as of late– to encourage it to meet below the swell of his belly.
He did not eat breakfast; he returned, instead, to his library and his text on the forces that underlie the stability of the Weave.
—
The problem with the supposed accountability conferred by the arcane lock he had placed on this particular section of his pantry was that no one was there to see him break it.
It was long past sunset when he traced a path between the softly shimmering runes of his own making: Venus, Saturn, Luna, knock. He could have made it more difficult to open if he had really meant it. He had been in a mood, he thought, when he set it. He hadn’t been thinking rationally. Why keep himself from one of the few sources of distraction from his damned condition that remained?
The remaining mist cheese and blackbread were quickly sacrificed to appease his appetite, but he felt his stomach growl, unsated. He rested a palm against his gut, feeling some deep hollowness despite the way the thing jutted proudly over his belt. There were still those dozen butterscotch oatmeal cookies.
The first one was divine, after the rich saltiness of the cheese. The next two were eaten together, stacked, so eagerly he hardly tasted them before he had devoured them: crisp at the edges yet chewy in the middle, easy and sweet and addicting. The rest disappeared all too easily, steadily filling his stomach with sugar and fat and blessed, comforting fullness. And still, he knew, it could easily take more.
He searched the shelves for something else, after the cookies. A smooth glass bottle of milk was kept cool by an arcane enchantment he had cast upon one corner of the pantry more than a handful of years ago. He took the entire bottle and gulped the cold milk down mindlessly to please his overfed gut, to fatten it further, to feel the sheer fullness as he ran his warm fingers over the bloated curve of his belly.
He let out a soft belch as he set the empty bottle back onto the shelf.
Some half-remembered poem flickered through his mind as he stumbled back into his bed, leaning against the pillows at the headboard with a hand still guarding his stomach; the roots of the lily glorying in their thick and delicious mud, the bright and delicate flower above possibly only by the muck below.
He stroked his stomach almost curiously, letting his hand travel down to the softer swell of belly fat below his navel. He was worsening this as he watched, he thought with a sickening sort of pleasure: the fullness of his belly was gradually easing as he lazed here in bed, just as he lazed in the library or at the kitchen table, working off functionally none of it, fattening himself imperceptibly but assuredly.
How odd that each easy session of gluttony contributed functionally nothing on its own, but mere tendays of them fed his figure so eagerly, softening the plush roll of fat that peeked above his trousers. He palmed at his belly from below more confidently now, feeling the fullness and weight of it, the new pudge that had very much been his doing. His fingers dug in only slightly– below this layer of fat there was only new bloat, consequences, indulgence.
The stomach demanded a submission not easily sated or faked. A reckless session of gorging appeased it in a Mystran way he resented that he admired; you've done well, for now, my student.
It was in this way that, unlike his goddess, his appetite felt at least fleetingly possible to truly please. He arched his back off the pillow as he palmed at his erection, watching the crest of his swollen belly push out, looking heavier and more taut, some dark pull of arousal swirling heavy in its glutted depth. Self-pleasure was headier on a fuller stomach, aching with a totality that sent some guilty pulse to the base of his cock that teased the possibility of even greater pleasures.
What had the offerings been today? Baked brie, this morning, with honey and walnuts… the melty flakiness of the pastry and the smooth, fatty cheese with just a touch of honey to sweeten it… the bulk of it had rested heavy and hedonistic in his gut, perfect and fattening. He pictured taking another generous forkful as he pleasured himself, pictured the fatty cheese glistening warm and gooey as he pushed it into his mouth despite how much he had clearly already eaten.
Yes– yes– more of this, more.