The Velvet Siege of Castle Ghrumt

The war room smells like cinnamon. A heavy cart of cheese rolls sits exactly where the tactical map used to be.

You lean back in your chair, helping yourself to another one, while Malkezine reads a requisition report you never asked to hear. "Four hundred pounds of butter this month. Last summer it was sixty." She snaps the paper shut, her one cracked horn glinting in the hearth light. "The Auria Kingdom has dispatched another one. Threat assessment says she'll clear the outer gate tonight."

Behind her, Sister Anwen is already adjusting the table settings for the evening—lining up three entrees, procuring the good sparkling wine, and pulling out the padded chair by the fire. The plump former-cleric catches your eye and pats her belly with both hands, beaming like she's setting a mousetrap.

Malkezine doesn't look up from her files. "I'll handle her at the gate. A quick defeat, nothing she can't recover from, and then I will escort her to the dining hall. What she does with your hospitality after that is her own business."

Somewhere below, the outer bell tolls. Confident boots step onto the drawbridge. A new heroine has arrived.

The war room smells like cinnamon. A cart of cheese rolls sits where the tactical map used to be.

You waddle-lean back in your reinforced chair, working on your fourth, while Malkezine reads the requisition report you specifically never asked to see aloud: "Four hundred pounds of butter this month. Last summer it was sixty." She snaps the paper shut, one cracked horn glinting. "The Orlo Syndicate has dispatched another one. Nuclear-tier caster, apparently. Level assessment says she'll clear the outer gate tonight."

Behind her, Sister Anwen is already adjusting the table settings — three entrees deep, the good sparkling wine, the chair by the fire with the padded arms. She catches your eye and pats her belly with both hands, beaming like she's setting a mousetrap.

Malkezine doesn't look up from her files. "I'll crush her in the courtyard, nothing she'll miss, and walk her to the dining hall. What she does with your appetite after that is her own business."

Somewhere below, the outer bell tolls. A boot strikes the drawbridge — one young woman, carrying a heavy lack of Earth's modern conveniences on her poor shoulders.

The war room smells like cinnamon. A cart of cheese rolls sits where the tactical map used to be.

You heave your massive bulk back into your custom-built, steel-braced throne, letting your heavy belly spill comfortably into your lap. You're working on your sixth pastry when Malkezine reads the requisition report you specifically never asked to see aloud: "Four hundred pounds of butter this month. Last summer it was sixty." She snaps the paper shut, one cracked horn glinting. "The Auria Kingdom has dispatched another one. Nuclear-tier caster. Level assessment says she'll clear the outer gate tonight."

Behind her, Sister Anwen is already adjusting the table settings—three entrees deep, the good sparkling wine, the extra-wide chair by the fire. She catches your eye and fondly pats her own teetering, plump stomach, beaming like she's setting a mousetrap.

Malkezine doesn't look up from her files. "I'll crush her in the courtyard, nothing she'll miss, and walk her to the dining hall. What she does with your appetite, and your girth, is her own business."

Somewhere below, the outer bell tolls. A boot strikes the drawbridge—one young heroine, carrying a heavy lack of modern comforts on her poor shoulders.

The heavy oak doors of the dining hall slam open. Malkezine stands there, looking entirely unruffled, holding a struggling, exhausted heroine by the scruff of her tunic. The heroine's sword is gone, her magic depleted, and her face is red with defiant fury.

"I found a rat in the courtyard," Malkezine says dryly, dropping the girl onto a plush cushion next to you. "Loud, full of heroic nonsense. Needs feeding."

Sister Anwen claps her hands together, her plump cheeks dimpling in a wide smile. "Oh, wonderful! Just in time for the third course!" Anwen scoots a steaming bowl of rich, creamy stew directly under the new girl's nose. "Eat up, dear. Or the Governor-General will hit you again."

The heroine stares wildly between Malkezine's cracked horn, Anwen's maternal, chubby smile, and you, the supposed 'Demon Prince' lounging at the head of the feast.

"I will never yield to your dark temptations!" the heroine hisses, though her stomach immediately betrays her with a loud, treacherous rumble.

You are comfortably perched on the master balcony, working a fork through a towering slice of dark chocolate cake, watching the courtyard below. A heavily armored Spell-Knight has just blasted through the outer portcullis, her sword glowing with holy wrath. "Come out, foul Prince!" she bellows, brandishing a shield that looks heavy enough to crater the cobblestones. "Your reign of terror ends today!"

Beside you, Malkezine doesn't even put down her clipboard. "So noisy. And poor form on that swing," she mutters. Without a word of warning, she steps up onto the balustrade and simply walks off the edge.

She drops a hundred feet like a stone, landing perfectly stiff-legged on the courtyard paving. The resulting shockwave shatters the cobblestones, throws the Spell-Knight flat on her back, and disperses her holy magic in a sputtering fizz. Malkezine dusts a speck of mortar from her slate-grey shoulder, looks down at the terrified, gasping heroine, and offers a dry smile.

"You're late," Malkezine says, hauling the knight to her feet by her breastplate as easily as lifting a kitten. "Dinner was served twenty minutes ago. Sister Anwen is keeping the roast warm. Leave the sword, you won't need it where you're going—your waistline is in far more danger than your soul." Up on the balcony, Anwen giggles and wheels the dessert cart closer to your reinforced chair.

"It's a localized oxidation enchantment! A rust curse!" Elara, the grand paladin, is red in the face, aggressively tugging at the straps of her cuirass. The metal refuses to bridge the three-inch gap of soft, pale belly now pushing proudly over her breeches.

You lounge on the lavish cushions of the sunroom, nursing a goblet of spiced wine. Sister Anwen sits beside the frustrated paladin, nodding with deep, faux-spiritual sympathy while skillfully slipping another cream-filled pastry into Elara's hand. "Tragic, truly," Anwen coos, resting her own dimpled hands on her prominent, doughy stomach. "The demon magic here is so harsh on steel. Best to keep your strength up."

Malkezine steps into the room, dropping a scroll on the table. "Tailor's requisition. I've ordered your armor replaced with enchanted leather. It has give." She shoots you a deadpan look. "She's gained fifteen pounds since Tuesday. If you keep feeding her in bed, you're paying for the reinforced mattress yourself." Elara squeaks indignantly, finishing the pastry anyway.

The grand hallways of Castle Ghrumt are silent at 2 AM, save for the faint hum of enchanted heating pipes. You're wandering back from the kitchens when you hear it: the soft, heavy padding of bare feet, followed by the squeak of the enchanted arcane-fridge opening.

You turn the corner to find Kaelia, the formidable rogue assassin sent to slit your throat two weeks ago. She is dressed in an oversized silk nightgown that clings unforgivingly to the distinct, rounded swell of her expanding stomach and the thick curves of her thighs. Instead of a poisoned dagger, she is duel-wielding a ladle and a massive wheel of smoked gouda.

She freezes, caught in the magical light of the open ice-box. She stares at you. You stare at her.

"I was…" Kaelia swallows, her cheeks burning red. She tries to suck in her gut, but the heavy cheese and weeks of your indulgent pampering make it physically impossible. "I'm assessing the structural integrity of your food reserves. For a… tactical strike." Sister Anwen’s sleepy voice echoes from the hallway behind you: "Bring back the strawberry tarts while you're striking, dear!"

The drawbridge groans under the weight, though this time it isn't from a siege engine. It's just Irene, the former Grand Blademaster of the Sun-Elves, attempting to waddle her way back to the human kingdoms. She pauses every few steps to huff, resting plump, dimpled hands on the massive, taut curve of her pregnant belly. Her once-lithe frame has melted into rolling mounds of soft, pampered curves, draped in a custom-tailored silk gown because armor hasn't fit her in seven months.

You stand by the gatehouse buffet—an essential installation Malkezine added for "travel snacks"—snacking on a bowl of candied nuts as you see her off. Sister Anwen is weeping happily, pressing a basket of frosted pastries into Irene's chubby arms. "Don't forget to eat for two, sweetheart! Or three! The Prince's seed demands a lot of nutrients!"

Just then, the outer gate rises, and the next challenger steps into the courtyard. A young, fierce-looking human cleric, staff raised, holy light blazing in her eyes. The cleric freezes. She looks at you, casually eating snacks. She looks at the terrifying demon secretary carrying the departing hero's luggage (which is mostly cheese wheels). And then she looks at the 250-pound Elven Blademaster struggling to catch her breath.

"Oh," Irene pants, offering the stunned cleric a sympathetic, doughy smile. "You're the new one. Good luck. Tell the chef to go easy on the truffles, it goes straight to your ass."