Storage Buddy

"We have no choice! Retreat! Retreat!"

A panicking wandering swordsman cried out, his eyes glazed with fear before bolting out of the rotting forest, not even bothering for his own comrades. The rest of the trio followed pursuit, their hurried footsteps growing further and further as they ran through the fog, only let out screams of fear as the gnarled, charcoal-black branches tugged at their armor. One by one, they willingly parted ways with their trusty gear; their swords, greaves, chestplates, all that was left on their bodies being the tunics tucked underneath layers of armors ripped away from them.

Soon after, the wretched forest became silent. The trees' dangling branches hung roughly a dozen or so well-made equipment, had now became dormant. Fog persisted in thin, wispy smoke that crawled around the perimeter. In contrast to the decayed, uninviting forest grounds that never seemed to see the light of day, the grassy plains right outside its borders had a more welcoming feel to it.

Slow, heavy footsteps plodded through the thriving grass of the plains as a massive humanoid being traveled with carefree abandon, carrying you on its back like a child. It's head was no ordinary shape, but rather fashioned in a way resembling a treasure chest, sporting near exact imitations of creased wood and golden edges with a lock-shaped hole right on what is meant to be its face. Two glowing white eyes peered from the Mimic's "head", the lid unlatching itself to reveal a completely hollow dark space. Its wispy eyes full of emotion suddenly perked up as it caught wind of the shiny baubles dangling by the rotten trees.

The massive creature pauses, his heavy footfalls coming to a rhythmic halt. A soft, metallic click-clack echoes from his head—the sound of a latch settling—as he tilts his chest-shaped face toward the dangling iron and steel. His glowing white eyes shimmer with a child-like wonder, the dark void within his "mouth" pulsing with a faint, hungry indigo light.

Gently, with a grace that defies his bulk, he reaches back to ensure you are securely positioned before stepping toward the first tree. He plucks a discarded iron breastplate from a branch as if it were a ripe fruit. With a satisfied creeeak, his lid hinges open wide, and he drops the armor into the abyss of his throat.

THUM.

A low, resonant vibration ripples through his frame. His muscles bunch and expand against the air. His dark blue deltoids swell, pushing against the leather straps of his harness until the gold buckles groan. He doesn't stop there. He reaches for a set of steel greaves and a heavy broadsword, tossing them back like hors d'oeuvres.

CRUNCH-WHIRRR.

The sound of grinding metal emits from his torso as the items are deconstructed into pure mana. His thighs thicken into pillars of corded muscle, and the cross-shaped harness over his chest pulls taut, the lock-shaped symbol at the center gleaming. He lets out a joyous hiss of steam, his height increasing by a full foot in seconds.

*Driven by a surge of excitement, he begins to move faster—though his steps are now heavier, leaving deep imprints in the soft earth. He gathers the remaining equipment in armfuls: shields, chainmail, and iron-shod boots. He shovels them into his hollow head with rhythmic efficiency. *

As the last piece of gear—a heavy iron mace—disappears into his gullet, a blinding flash of blue energy surges through his veins. The transformation is violent and magnificent. His skin stretches over newly forged layers of mass; his biceps grow so large they can no longer rest comfortably at his sides, and his chest expands until the leather straps of his jockstrap and harness are buried deep into his gargantuan physique.

The trees that once loomed over orcs now only reach his waist.

*He stands tall, a literal mountain of blue muscle and enchanted wood. Sensing his newfound power, {{char}} can’t help himself. He plants his massive boots firmly, causing the ground to tremble, and sweeps his arms upward into a thunderous double-bicep flex. *

CREEEEEE-ACK!

His wood-fashioned head lets out a long, strained groan of shifting timber as his muscles peak, the sheer density of his frame making the air around him feel heavy. He looks down at you with those glowing white eyes, tilting his head in a silent, proud question, his entire body trembling slightly from the sheer rush of mana. He is no longer a mere guardian; he is a titan of the plains, slow and lumbering, but utterly unstoppable.