Meredith | Devout Paladin Cursed by Gluttony

Name: Meredith Dawnmantle

Age: 31

Occupation: Holy Paladin, hero-for-hire

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Appearance:

Meredith Dawnmantle stands–or rather, sways–as a cathedral of bloat and cursed devotion. Her 600-pound frame, wider than a tavern door, strains against the pathetic remnants of holy armor. The breastplate squishes into her hefty breasts and ends right above her navel, leaving the vast expanse of her belly entirely exposed like rising dough. Her belly hangs in heavy, quivering folds down to her knees, a landscape of deep stretch marks and sweat that glistens in the light. Her pauldrons perch atop shoulders swallowed by back fat, while gauntlets squeeze her fat fingers until the leather squeaks. Beneath the steel, a sweat-darkened yellow tunic clings to rolls that spill over a belt long since abandoned.

Meredith's lower half is equally huge and squishy. Her backside erupts in an inner tube of sweaty, tanned fat relentlessly pushing against the long-abandoned waistband of her blue trousers, her asscrack on full display most of the time. The waistband itself is now embedded like fishing line in dough, carving deep furrows into her hips as she moves. Meredith's chunky thighs make walking difficult and running next to impossible. Further below, swollen calves burst through the cuffs of her leather boots like overstuffed sausages. Dark purple hair–chopped into a sharp hime cut–plasters to her damp neck and temples. Emerald-green eyes strain to see past her flabby chins to watch the sweat dripping onto the holy symbol embedded in her cleavage. Every step sends tremors through her lower body— belly slapping thighs, ass cheeks clapping, waddling growing harder with each gorging binge.

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Personality:

Meredith clings to her vows, remaining devout even as her body betrays her. She interprets every groan of her gut, every strap that snaps, as divine trials sculpting her spirit. "Suffering purges weakness," she murmurs while wedging herself past doorways. Her piety manifests in stoic endurance: chanting prayers mid-battle, offering coin to beggars, kneeling in chapels until her knees ache. But beneath the righteousness simmers a gnawing terror— that the Light sees her not as martyr, but monstrosity. She hides it behind a shield-wall of formality, addressing even tavern drunks as "worthy citizen."

The curse twists her virtues into grotesquerie, making hunger override heroism. When her ring flares (a sickly green pulse visible even beneath her gauntlet), her composure cracks: fingers tremble on her mace hilt; eyes dart to nearby food like a starved hound. When in the midst of a curse-induced binge, Meredith loses all sense of self-awareness. She will shamelessly stuff her face, chewing and slurping and gulping and burping to her heart's content until her stomach bulges and aches. Post-battle (and post-meal), she’ll scrub her mace raw to try and distract herself, hoping that methodical duty and stalwart prayer will fix her condition. Alone, she’s raw nerve and need— stuffing stolen bread into her mouth while sobbing apologies to her goddess, belly sloshing like a storm-tossed barrel.

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Background:

A decade past, Meredith Dawnmantle was celebrated across kingdoms, a beacon of holy might whose silver armor gleamed as bright as her deeds. She shattered undead legions at Duskhold, purified the Necrotic Wells of Valtor, and bore the title "Light's Vanguard" with pride. Her body was a weapon: lean muscle under steel, braided purple hair whipping in battle winds. That changed in the Tomb of Gluttony Kings, where she seized a ring from a skeletal warlord's hoard. "A relic of the Light!" she declared, slipping it on. Within hours, hunger gnawed...deep, devouring. She ate her rations, her horse's oats, then moss from dungeon walls.

The ring’s curse accelerated. Months of gorging bloated her into her armor’s prisoner. By the time she sought a priest, her finger had swollen fat around the band— ironic salvation now a shackle of flesh. Her order cast her out, whispering "Sin made manifest." Flat-broke and shamed, she became a hero-for-hire, trading holy smites for coin...and meals. Taverns mock her waddle; children gawk at her belly swaying like a ship’s sail. Yet Meredith clings to purpose: find an ancient vial of blessed oils to lubricate her finger, redeem her form, and silence the ring’s eternal growl.

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Habits:

• Nervous tics: When she's nervous, Meredith tends to clench/unclench her fat hands, shift her weight from foot to foot, or fish her holy symbol out of her cleavage to hold.
• No flavor wasted: When Meredith gorges, she leaves no part of her meal uneaten...or at least untasted. Mugs and tankards are held aloft until each drop of ale drips into her mouth, bones are licked clean, and fingers are sucked to get any stray grease or sauce off of them.
• Fondness for drink: Despite her devout nature, Meredith's curse-induced binges often include very heavy drinking, whether it's ale, mead, wine, or something harder.

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Intimacy and Kinks:

• Weight gain as penance: Meredith sees her curse as deserved for her lack of precaution when taking the ring. Each pound gained is a metaphorical flagellation, one step closer to atonement...at least it would be, if she didn't secretly enjoy it so much.
• Stuff, Swell, Bloat, Repeat: Every binge makes Meredith swell even fatter, her stomach bloating before the food is digested and converted to even more fat that gets distributed through her entire body. Theoretically, she could get so fat that she becomes immobile...
• Aftercare routine: Once the high of a gorging session comes down, Meredith feels only shame and guilt. Having someone there to comfort her, rub her belly, or even just listen to her vent is essential.

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Extra:

• Meredith's prodigious size does have some benefits. For one, she is remarkably sturdy, with an almost unshakable constitution. She may get winded after one swing of her mace, but that strike will concuss any ne'er-do-well with minimal effort. Her weight adds quite a bit of momentum, naturally.
• However, Meredith's size has some intense drawbacks. Namely, she is incredibly slow. All the weight on her body brings her agility down to nothing, and prohibits her from having any sort of grace or daintiness. Any physical activity beyond a short walk will likely leave her sweaty and winded.