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The Ever (Growing) Queens

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3 hours ago, boss frond said:

Dug the heck out of this story brother, good work. Any fantasy wg recs would be appreciated.

Check out a short story on here called “Queen of the Fat Coast” 😯 it’s classic

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I'm half way through the first chapter and...when I said evil side, I meant Evil. Mass murder, human sacrifice, bathing in blood, cackling madness type of evil. So yeah there's gonna be a bunch of gaining and sex and fat as it goes on, but if you don't want to see the evil, skip the first half of the first chapter.

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1 hour ago, Batman76 said:

I'm half way through the first chapter and...when I said evil side, I meant Evil. Mass murder, human sacrifice, bathing in blood, cackling madness type of evil. So yeah there's gonna be a bunch of gaining and sex and fat as it goes on, but if you don't want to see the evil, skip the first half of the first chapter.

Run Away Dr Evil GIF
Me when the next chapter hits 

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Far to the North and West of the Island paradise of Ulthuan, lay the cold and bleak land of Nagarond.


Land of the cruel dark elves, the Druchi exiles who'd nearly destroyed all of Ulthuan in their pride and hate. Proud pirates and sadistic slave masters, the cruelest and most selfish of all the races in the world. But even they could know fear...


Down sank the blood red sun over the horizon, casting mountainous shadows over the great Druchi citadel of Ghrond.


With the death of day came a great mourning cry all throughout the massive dark elf city. From the lowest slave pit to the highest chamber in a noble tower the keening came, a scream of fear and dread from a dreadful people. For tonight death would stalk the black keeps and obsidian walls of the massive dark elf city in the form of pale lithe shapes, with dark blades in their hands and murder in their eyes.


Because tonight was Hell Night.


The powerful of the city trembled within their castles, dread pirate admirals and rich noble lords listening to the screams of the slaves they'd penned before their gates and hoping that the offering to the Murder God Khaine was enough to satisfy his terrible high priestess. Convoys and caravans of the captured were driven towards the city center, terrified slaves and tardy Dark Elves alike forming into a massive river of mortal fear rushing towards a black spear of obsidian that rose thousands of feet into the sky. As a river meets the sea through a wide delta, the streams were split as they poured through the five hundred foot gates of black ithilmar and into a living hell.


Clouds of **, hallucinogenic incense billowed from fire pits, driving terrified lunacy into even the bravest heart. Demons laughed and cavorted within the clouds, lithe and pale shapes clad in the barest among of armor, their near naked bodies bared to mock the helplessness of their victims. Overseeing all of them was a vast throne of red stone that seemed to pulse with living blood, a hooded and cloaked figure staring at the herds of sacrifices.


In one direction went the crudest and least comely of the slaves, hulking Orcs and hunched goblins, mutated Beastmen and the awful Saurians of Lustria herded towards massive cauldrons, surrounded by the majority of the terrible women. In another went humans, from captured sailors of far Cathay to broken Knights of chivalrous Brettonia. And to the smallest went the most comely: captured noble women from the Sigmarite Empire, bodies curvacous and busty, the fair lean daughters of Brettonian lords with a handful of drugged damsels, the plush girls of an Arabayan Pasha's harem, muscular Lustrian Amazons and stout Norscan shield maidens, as well as a tiny amount of blonde Asur maidens and those Dark Elves captured in the streets, their fear the greatest of all.


For the whether high elf or dark elf, asur or druchi, they knew their fate and knew just who the cloaked figure, now rising from her throne with a naked sword in hand was.


Knives stabbed and swords cut, scourges tore and whips cracked.


And drip by drip by drop by drop, did the cauldrons fill.


Corpses rose in mountains around the awful temple in equal measure, the great crimson pools beginning to foam and spin. When the cauldrons were over flowing and the last slave has burbled their last, only the witch elves remained. The horrific warrior nuns were already covered in blood, but they pulled their gory garments away and began to dive into the massive lakes of blood. Those near the door stripped and dove first, young Druchi still in before their third century, lean bodies hard with lithe muscle, faces smooth and flawless save for ritualistic scars and the wounds of battle.


Up the sloping temple did garments fall, those in the middle where the common humans had died in the middle age of the long lived Druchi. They'd seen long centuries, their faces beginning to wrinkle, their muscles beginning to waste, many with the stretch marks of mother hood and bellies that had seen more feasting than was good for them. Yet they'd worn the tiny garments, barely enough to cover their sexes and support their breasts, without shame and stripped naked without judgement, ecstatic to be taking part in the murder god's dread ritual.


Those in the third rank were old, old even for elves. Their black hair had faded to pale white, their soft skin given totally to wrinkles and the spots of age, their breasts sagging and their muscles weakened. Each wore heavier armor, as much to hide their imperfections as to make up for having lost the speed and grace of youth. They dove into a lake made from the blood of human noble women, its purity needed to restore them some measure of youth to last until the next Hell Night.


And last, last of all, was the high priestess.




Architect of the Sundering.


Author of five thousand years of pointless kin-strife.


High Priestess and most beloved of Khaine the Bloody Handed.


The vainest and most evil ever to be born among elves, men or even Orcs.


Who looked at the pathetic, paltry amount of Asur maidens she'd had to sacrifice and felt holy rage in her black heart. The House of Lokir had been tasked with retrieving her sacrifices of pure elf maids for this day and yet the cauldron barely even overflowed with blood! Even worse, the lazy, cringing pirates had tried to rectify their error by force feeding the dead maidens to parodic obesity, just that they would have enough blood.


"Their punishment will be terrible and slow in ending," the Hag Queen promised herself, putting down her bloodied sword and shedding the hateful robes that hid the imperfections that cropped up in the last weeks before Hell Night, every witch elf in the room averting their eyes to see her at all less than perfect.


The woman who slipped naked from the robe did not look like she'd been a woman with a grown son when the undead deserts of Nehekara had been green with life. No, Morathi revealed was a woman of such impossible beauty that kings would wage endless war against their own brothers just for a single night with her. The endlessly long legs that strode smoothly towards the bubbling blood cauldron had luminously pale, luxuriously soft skin, the muscles of an athlete twitching beneath. Narrow hips twitched side to side, her long black hair swishing across a small ass tight enough to bounce a dwarven cannon ball.


Her waist was narrow as the line between good and evil, her ribs visible through the skin above it. Full tear drop breasts bounced slightly with each step, the small pink nipples tight and erect in her anger and excitement. Her neck was long and graceful, leading to a gaunt, heart shaped face with cheek bones sharp enough to shave with and blue eyes the color of an ocean storm.


Yet if one looked past the beauty there were tiny imperfections. Breasts that rested slightly against her chest. A stomach that had faint stretch marks and wasn't perfectly flat, a sex that had born a child long ago. The faintest beginning of lines on her brow or around her mouth. The glorious beauty could still crumble nations with a glance, but there was an air of maturity about her looks. If another elf had had to guess her age they'd have said the start of her third century, if a human couldn't see the pale tips of her ears emerging through her raven hair and taken Morathi as a member of their race, they would have assumed she was about thirty.


For the Hag Queen, the tiny flaws and signs of age would have been enough to murder ten times the number of sacrifices who'd died in her temple today even if they hadn't restored her youth. Just to vent her rage at being tarnished, before she set out on a campaign to destroy the whole world lest she have to see it as a crone.


Morathi dove deep into the bubbling cauldron of elf blood, feeling the glorious love of the hateful God of Murder pulse through her body and thinking hateful thoughts...




House Lokir was an old clan, one that could trace its lineage back to the Sundering when the Druchi had first been exiled to cold Nagaroth.


Dawn after Hell Night, Morathi erased it from existence.


Terrible black fire melted Castle Lokir's iron gates and hurricane winds swept their crossbowmen from the walls. A flood of cackling witch elves, gleeful with the speed and strength that came from perfect youth flooded in, flensing blades and sacrifcial swords making bloody havoc of the stunned soldiers and corsairs. They reached the keep before the doors could swing shut, pouring into the main tower to capture all those wise enough to surrender.


The last lord of Lokir was dragged from his home in chains, thrown by flawless witch elves in the first flower of youth to his knees in his own court yard. Before he could even demand a reason for this, winds blew across the cold stone and a massive, jet black pegasus landed before him. The massive horse was seven Imperial feet at the shoulder and its twenty foot wings nearly knocked the witch elves guarding the Lord to their knees.


Morathi slid from her steeds back with flawless grace, the only sound the click of four inch heels that put the tall woman over six feet. The boots were knee high, made from the hide of a Saurus warleader she'd killed in Lustria centuries earlier, and matched the sword belt lashed tight to the Hag Queen's tiny waist. Belt and boots were the only thing the Hag Queen wore despite the chill, her blinding beauty its own armor, her glorious, almost glowing bare skin too beautiful for anyone to do anything but drool at. Now, mere hours after Hell Night and Morathi was irresistible, the most perfect woman to ever stride the world. The tiny flaws of the night before were gone: a youthful softness had settled on slightly too gaunt features of her face, her breasts were fuller and higher, the muscles of her belly tight and defined.


"Lokir, you have cheated Khaine of what is his and nearly as foolishly, cheated me of what is mine," the Hag Queen hissed through her blindingly white teeth, plump red lips drawn into a snarl as she kicked the muscular corsair onto his back and pressing a small, booted foot to his throat, "plead to me now. Plead that I show mercy despite your sacrifices being so small in number you had to force feed them. Plead that I do not need a new pair of boots."


When the Queen's slight weight was withdrawn, Lokir coughed, tearing his eyes away from Morathi's naked glory to let his mind even begin to work.


"Apologies and apologies, ten thousand apologies, oh most lovely Queen," the hardened pirate begged, "I am not worthy to look upon one as glorious as you..."


Morathi kicked him again, the toe of her boot blackening his eye.


"No one still among the living is," the sociopathic Queen growled, remembering the face of her long dead husband Aenarion, the first Phoenix King and savior of the elves, the only one besides herself she'd ever loved, "so stop wasting my precious time. Your house won the monopoly to raid Ulthuan, with a promise that you hand over half your slaves to me. Yet barely enough were presented to me to fill a cauldron of blood. Where are the others?"


"That-that was half of them, oh most terrifying and glorious of Queens," Lokir gasped, "a new energy fills our old enemies, their arrows strike harder, their spears are swifter, their magic more powerful. We lost hundreds just to claim a few slaves, I have never known such hard fighting..."


"Because you are young and weak," Morathi growled, her anger and rage triggering her libido, "and you kept this private from your Queen and your King. Be gladdened that it is not my son you are dealing with. Malekieth does not share my mercy."


In this state, young and vibrant, her body was easy to arouse. Just the thought of her long dead husband was making her beginning to moisten. The Hag Queen shook her beautiful head, long black curls shaking in a way to make men die just from glimpsing her. Several of the captured House Lokir soldiers in fact did die, hearts giving out at seeing her.


"And be gladdened that you were wise enough to fatten them up. They still had enough blood for my purposes," Morathi went on, "so you will be allowed to keep your life..."


"I...I did not do so. Oh radiant one, true ever queen," the desperate pirate lord gasped, "the Asur women have grown soft and corpulent. The ones we captured said it was a trend started by their hideous false Queen, Alarielle..."


A small twitch grew in Morathi's left eye, the smooth lid almost blinking several times.


"Repeat that," the sorceress hissed, sword tip at Lokir's throat.


"Alarielle, they said that she is...fat as a pregnant tick, soft as suet and that it strengthens their whole race...I!" the pirate lord trailed off, Morathi's flat, hard stomach giving out a deep, draconic growl.


The Queen's hypnotizing features split into a face of pure, absolute rage. Her sword took Lokir's head off with a flick of her wrist, blood splattering against her pale face. Another loud growl came from the Queen's stomach, making her double over in agony, white teeth contrasted with the blood on her face.


"My Queen?" one of the Witch Elves asked, puzzled at the sight of their Queen in any state but absolute self assurance.


"Kill everyone of them," Morathi hissed to her cultists, her breath shallow and limping away from them, with one hand clenched over her midriff, "from his wife and concubines down to the smallest child and the lowest slave. Everyone in this castle dies, in Khaine's name. I must return to my chambers..."


She hopped easily onto her black pegasus, the beast rearing and flying off as the carnage began in earnest.


"Alarielle," the Hag Queen hissed as more pain went through her stomach, "so you've found the ancient evidence I worked so hard to hide away, have you? I'll defeat you still and defeat the call you put out to all born on Ulthuan's shores..."


Morathi's mind began to cloud, filling with visions of excess.


While the Queen was a hedonist in terms of sex and violence, she was a light eater. But now her mind was filling with visions of roasting boar and fried beef and sizzling hydra filets, chimera egg omelets and fried griffon wings. Drool poured down her pointed chin and she moaned, legs squeezing the flanks of her pegasus tight in a mix of lust and hunger.


"Damnable fat whore, curse her to the deepest pits of Slaanesh' belly," Morathi groaned, daring to invoke the name of the Chaos God of excess, a deity darker than even her own.


The Hag Queen felt more pain shoot across her belly, awful as a spear wound. Now that she'd been alerted to it, she could feel the alteration in the great vortex of power at the core of Ulthuan's inner sea. Now that the High Elf Everqueen was returning to the obesity of her distant ancestors, the revitalized power was flowing across the world to every elf maid ever born in Ulthuan.


And although Morathi had only walked sacred shores in the past millennia as part of periodic invasions, the Hag Queen herself had been born in Ulthuan, on the very border of the Ever Queen's realm of Avalorn.


"I will defeat you, whore and strumpet, quick lived fool, doomed to age and hideousness," the perfect sorceress swore, visions of food ripping through her mind, "I will...I will...I will...show you two can play at that game!"

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Well, well! Surely Morathi has more willpower to drive herself to gluttonous excess than Alarielle? Not to mention an actual god of gluttony to invoke...

1 hour ago, Batman76 said:

Clouds of **, hallucinogenic incense billowed

Hmm, sounds like strong stuff! I think I might start writing ** in my stories next time I can't think of the word I want. 

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1 hour ago, Batman76 said:

I have no idea why it auto blanked that, the word is c.h.o.k.i.n.g btw

I used that word only once, and the same happened to me. I reckon it’s so that a casual google search using questionable buzzwords won’t mark this site as equally questionable 

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On 9/1/2020 at 3:32 PM, Batman76 said:

She hopped easily onto her black pegasus, the beast rearing and flying off as the carnage began in earnest.

If this isn't a chekhov's gun I will be damned.

I keep coming back to this story time and time again. I am looking forward for more chapters :3

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Whew, only what, 5 months? But here's part 2, where Morathi has gained with interest:


The days after Hell Night were usually ones where Ghrond saw much of its Queen.

Filled with flawless youth, Morathi loved to strut her flawless body before her courtiers and clerics. Sometimes it was killing great beasts in the arena with just her nimble physical prowess, other times it was by taking courtesans and concubines in front of her entire court. Always it was naked, Morathi wearing only a pair of boots to show off her perfection. But in the days after this Hell Night, Morathi disappeared into her castle's highest tower, seeing nothing and no one. Why she had vanished for nearly three weeks was a mystery that none would dare solve, for to enter the Hag Queen's inner sanctum was a death sentence.


Morathi was a creature of paranoia as much as she was covetousness, wrath and vanity, it rivaled blood sacrifice for being the main reason her long, monstrous, beautiful life had lasted for so many long centuries. Only love slaves, branded with mind dominating scars were even allowed into the massive, cushioned seraglio on the lower levels to meet the Hag Queen’s endless lusts and all of them were executed within a month of entry. None had seen a floor higher since the great tower was created, raised with sorcery by Morathi in a single night. No, the Queen did not trust anything alive, or once alive, to enter her sleeping chambers and libraries and laboratories. Even if they didn’t deign to steal one of her secret spells, mortal servants could be replaced by assassins or merely use poison upon Morathi’s food or water, leading to the Queen to use marble and silver automatons carved by captured masters.


“I...hate you,” the Queen rasped at the approaching automaton.


Vain as she was, Morathi would only allow one face within her inner sanctum...her own. 


The six foot statue was carved of flawless white marble, with silver joints and sapphire eyes, a perfect simulacrum of the dark elf Queen. Long legs, girlish hips, a hard flat belly and high, proud breasts, all perfect representations of Morathi at her best. Although it weighed several hundred pounds, the automaton moved silently and gracefully, the spoons, forks, knives and plates on its heavy tray not even rattling.


Hate you, hate you, hate you…,” Morathi seethed, pale face reddening in pure absolute anger to behold the perfect stonework, “...walk faster damn it…”


The hellish Queen reclined on a four poster bed the size of a small house, stuffed with the down of slaughtered pegasi. Heavy spider silk curtains were down, shrouding Morathi in darkness, only the glow of her blue eyes visible. Enough growls, grumbles and groans came from the darkness that a hydra seemed to be hiding in the bed chamber, but the Queen was alone, her body the source of the growls, growing louder and louder as the food neared. Ignoring her insults, the stone automaton set the heavy tray of food down on the bed, backing away as it was programmed too.


Morathi gave it one last glare at the glorious statue, then fell upon the heavy tray with the hunger of a starving animal. She forgot her anger at the automaton’s perfection, just as she forgot her hate of the hell bitch Alarielle who had so cursed her and her hate of all that dared lived when her great love Alarion was dead. As the Queen grabbed hold of a heavy tureen of Brettonian truffle stew, heaving it to her plump red lips and chugging the rich stuff down like water, swallowing the mushrooms and briny broth down and down, all she could think of was how hungry she was.


The Hag Queen acted like a Norscan barbarian or perhaps even an Orc, eschewing tableware, napkins or any form of manners. She shoveled fried Imperial sausages into her mouth with her  hands. Shoved her flawless face into a great mountain of Tilean noodles drowned in tomato sauce and shaved cheese.Her sharp white teeth shredded the pasta, putting to mind nothing more than a vulture eating intestines by the time she slurped up the last noodles, blood red sauce staining from her cheeks to her breasts. 


Morathi barely had time to burp before her sharp nailed hands grabbed hold of a gromril tankard big as a child, topped with heady foam. No elf, Asur or Drucchi, would ever admit to enjoy the craft of the short, coarse mountain folk but the Queen Mother of the Druchi shamelessly chugged down a full gallon of Bugmans, the alcohol splashing against her neck and running down her full chest. With a mindless, psychotic determination, Morathi ate and ate, not stopping as her tummy began to touch the plush bedspread, only halting when she’d licked the last, buttery residue and batter away from a platter of fried merwyrm, with no less ferocity than when she had first began.


More, more...damn you to Khaine’s 9 Hells, give me more!” Morathi, watching the slim, lithe automaton gracefully collect the tray and walk away.


Pain and anger began to replace the hunger, a satiation that Morathi knew was temporary. Her stuffed, glutted body demanded rest: her arms burned from so rapidly stuffing the food mountain into her face, her lungs burned from barely breathing and her guts hurt as bad as giving birth. What she needed was a collapse onto the silky cushions of her bed and hours sleep to digest the deluge of calories she’d shoveled into herself, to rest as much as she could before the lunatic hunger of thousands of years of denied gluttony returned.


“I have no time to waste upon petty pain when I’ve a revenge to enact,” Morathi panted, making herself slide off of her bed, “Alarielle will pay for doing this to me and I shall be the true ever queen again…”


By force of will, the Hag queen banished the pain away, hauling herself from the bed despite the cramping protests of the stomach dragging on the satin blanket. Focusing on revenge made the Queen ignore the pain, thoughts on the agony she’d make the High Elf Queen Alarielle go through shot through her maddened brain and pushed away the torment of her stuffed belly. But as her feet slid to the cold stone floor, Morathi couldn’t ignore what was happened to her body.


Morathi’s steps towards her grimoires were not nearly so light or graceful as they’d been. Her graceful ankles and hurt to take her weight, beginning to swell as soon as the elf woman stood, toes reddening as gout began to make itself known. There was an odd, rasping noise never before heard in her chambers, the sound of soft thigh rubbing on soft thigh. Morathi’s steps were slow with the effort of forcing them past each other, no gait or posture she could take wide enough to make the columnar thighs stop touching. Her pace was a slow, belabored waddle, a parody of her predatory prance of years before and the soft inner slopes were red with chaffing. Always the Queen had sashayed when she stepped, to draw the eye with her alluring hips, but now the swing was far wider and far out of Morathi’s control.


A great urn taken from a Cathayan city by a Corsair lord attempting to buy her favor came into contact with the Hag Queen’s hips as she passed, the porcelain tipping over and shattering. Morathi stared at it in a wrath that could freeze a forest fire...which grew only hotter as she saw why the priceless vase had shattered:


Gone were the girlish hips Morathi had had unchanged for thousands of years, their narrow span banished and replaced with a sprawl befitting a matron. Round and heavy sprawls of fat now jutted from her pelvis, striped as a Tigerwoman of Ind with angry red stretchmarks. No dress nor garment in the Queen’s village sized wardrobe would have hoped to go round them, Morathi having gained nearly a yard across her backside.


“I...I always hated that vase anyway,” Morathi huffed, unable to admit the immensity of her girth and waddled on towards her study.


Despite the eternal chill of Naggaroth there was sweat coating the Hag Queen’s heavy rolls and flaps by the time she reached her study. Morathi’s athletic muscles had faded away to shades of themselves, while her weight had increased near three fold in a matter of weeks. Just getting herself moving was an effort, keeping it that way was a misery and a humiliation.


“Alarielle will pay for this, she will scream for a thousand years,” Morathi gasped as she entered the library of ancient lore, containing dusty papyrus documents written by living Nehekarans and golden slates stolen from reptilian cities in the southern jungles, but her eyes were not upon the grimroires and lore books no, but upon the broad chair sat before the tome laden desk, “uhffff, at last…”


Exhausted from her waddle, the morbidly  obese Druchi forced her overbroad hips into the wooden chair’s arms. Tight buns had nearly trippled in size, empty calories having inflated them  into sagging bulges that clapped and smacked with too much motion. Cellulite covered the crinkled folds and it was hard to tell where columnar thigh ended and sagging saddle bag began. The ravenhaired woman had to use what little strength remained to her just to sit, Morathi’s ass only fit into the broad chair due to how soft and malleable her lower half was, the lard compressing into the narrow seat and spilling out between the arms and back of the small throne.


For a moment all Morathi could do was gasp and pant, her heart thundering at the effort of moving her bulk. Researching was beyond her but she made herself reach out a thick, flabby arm, its upper flesh shuddering as a sail in a storm, and grab an ancient grimoire with her stubby fingers. Getting it set was difficult, Morathi’s latest feast had made an already considerable gut bloat up, as big as when she’d been ready to birth her beloved Anaerion’s son so long ago. Several times the iron willed queen’s blue eyes flickered in pain as sensitive flesh bumped into the hard wood of the table but Morathi was to tough to let that stop her.


“And thus it was the isha granted great fertility to the elves as long as they took up her bounty,” Morathi said to herself, reading the spidery crypt of an ancient everqueen who’d been long dead even before the first daemonic invasion of Ulthuan, “the First Queen swearing to keep the covenant between herself and her goddess by bearing her a daughter and never again making use of her legs…”


Morathi read, researching the old myths and mystic bonds for the first time since she’d called herself an Asur, since before the Kin-Slaying so many thousands of years ago. Despite her iron will the Hag Queen’s attention began to waver, her body might be that of a maiden (an immense maiden now) but she was old, older than any elf in the world. Without the blood sacrificed to Khaine she would be but a wizened hag or worse, dead.


“No, I will not die...not until what was mine is given back to me,” Morathi hissed to herself, clutching her softened hand to her mostly unchanged chest, her breasts still high and firm if no larger, “Ulthuan is my son’s birthright, and Aenarion was mine…”


The Queen’s mind kept drifting as she read, back to the beginning.


Back to when Morathi, Queen of Naggaroth had been but a starving farm girl in northern Ulthuan. Her parents, whose names and faces history had erased, had died at the hands of a blood mad pleasure cult worshipping the invading hordes of chaos pouring down from the north. Because she had been young and comely, Morathi had been for a few days but a plaything of the insane, fallen Asur and because she’d been strong and willful even then, she’d survived. The beatings and humiliations had taught her that the world was divided into predators and prey and as she was weak, she was the later and doomed to be devoured...until he had come.


Aenarion, the first and greatest of the Phoenix Kings, had walked alone into the camp of Morathi’s captors. Iron of limb and black of hair, his blue eyes shining with pain, grief and rage. In his hands had been Sunfang, the great blade made for the High King of the elves at his ascension to save the world from Chaos. Here was an Asur who was no prey, but a predator supreme. Aenarion had saved her and Morathi had fallen in love so deeply that she could feel not even a spark of that emotion towards anyone or anything else, ever again.


She had joined the Phoenix king’s house hold, first as a servant who’d begged to be trained to fight, then as a soldier and mage who’d been at the forefront of ever assault and then at last as his lover and wife. In those days the line between noble and peasant Asur had been broad, those like Morathi born at the bottom toiled and worked, their bodies thin and hard while those above them, the decadent female nobles, gorged themselves on Isha’s bounty and grew fat, lazy and indolent. It was why so many noble she elves had died at the first daemonic invasion, too fat and weak to run or fight.


Morathi was the Phoenix King’s second bride, the first the Everqueen who’d died at the hands of the first daemon invasion and although she’d known his pain, she’d helped Aenarion grow through it. The new Everqueen as Morathi was by right had been hailed by the remaining people of the northern Island spent her time as avatar of Isha growing strong in the lores of magic, learning from the great mage Caledor dragon tamer himself, a brief and happy time punctuated with the birth of her son Malekith. Respected and loved, Morathi had been truly joyous for nearly a human life time, until...


A daemonic invasion so great that all Ulthuan would fall, the tough northern kingdoms and the weak, decadent southerners alike. Morathi had fought beside her husband and just knighted son, killing thousands of daemons, invincible together. But even he could not be everywhere and a call that the high mage Caledor had needed his help in a ritual that would banish the daemons forever drew him from Morathi’s side to the inner sea of the ringed island…


To never return.


Morathi felt hot tears pour down her face and a pit open in her stomach, the world around her cold and alone forever more. Her love had gone and worse, the world had gone on, saved by Aenarion’s sacrifice. Then...then when her son should have succeeded her father as Phoenix King had come the great, wrenching betrayal of Isha. For from the woods of Avelorn had come the children of Aenarion’s first marriage, a son to steal Malekith’s crown and a daughter to steal Morathi’s. She was stripped of her title and then that bitch, that fat cheeked, waddling whore who’d hidden while Aenarion and Morathi had fought, that vile ancestress of Alarielle had looked at Morathi and smiled to say that she could at least look a noble woman of Ulthuan.


“I will *munch* have my *gulp* revenge!” Morathi gasped, realizing she was gorging.


Her automaton had brought her food, another great pallet of fattening fare the world over. The sorceress had eaten enough for a peasant family’s meal and wasn’t even full, the memories of grief and the curse of the everqueen combining to make her appetite a bottomless pit. From the day that long dead Everqueen had cursed her, Morathi had known painful hunger, no amount of food able to satiate her, soon growing too fat to even ride a horse, becoming one of those decadent, obese noble women she’d despised. Her blue eyes narrowed, remembering the joy she’d felt as she’d finally realized she could break the curse by changing what a noble woman of Ulthuan was too look like. It had taken centuries but as an elf Morathi had had time, using cultists and suborned agents to slowly, slowly change the Asur’s preferences. Her hunger had faded and her body had slimmed in time to help Malekith launch what should have been a revolution…


“He is not his father’s shadow,” the Queen said of her failure of a son, a burned cripple kept alive in ancient armor, “if only Aenarion had lived, I would still be ever queen and this curse would not have returned upon me by that whore Alarielle…”


The obese Queen finished some cheesy combination of bread and meat, belching and scratching her still sharp chin, trying to look at her grimoire and failing. She was using untold sorcerous power to keep her chin pointy and cheeks narrow, unwilling to give up her visage but knowing it was in vain. Morathi was gaining weight by the minute, it wouldnt be long before she was too fat to stand. Only by changing what a queen of ulthuan looked like could she be thin again, a high task given their new everqueen had learned of the old covenant.


Her eyes fell upon a sorcerous scrying globe, one she’d often use to review herself writhing atop terrified lovers and admire her predator’s form. Now it was covered in a cloth, as was every reflective surface in Morathi’s tower lest she catch a glimpse of herself in it.


“I’m not thinking, I’m just reacting. I need to get a glimpse of her, to find a way to out think her. How did she even discover the old power of the Everqueen? My agents scrubbed so much from the old libraries,” Morathi mused, closing her eyes and activating the glass globe.


Looking through it, she gazed at Alarielle’s inner chambers. There was a blonde Asur woman in the first flower of youth, quite young and very fat. A three hundred pounder like Morathi would be by the end of the day, but her hair was golden and skin sunkissed. Her gain was more flattering as well, giving her large, full breasts and wide hips. She was shameless as well, alarielle leaning on her hands and knees to gorge on a large cut of roast boar, her hanging fat rolls rippling and shaking as she was taken from behind by…


“...NO, NO, you will not take him from me too!” Morathi growled, seeing a tall Asur with broad shoulders, hard muscles and blonde hair, Aenarion reborn.


“No, no it can’t be. If he’d returned he would have come to me,” the mass murderess gasped, heart aching for the first time in millenia, “and I...no it must be some Asur who looks like him...I...if she stole her figure from me, I will have to steal her from him…and if I cannot be thin anymore, why should any woman, elf or human?"


Morathi cackled, a dire plan forming in her mind even as she shoveled fried meat into her mouth...

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Ooh this cliffhanger I like! But hopefully we’re not hanging for long because this story in particular is absolutely wonderful. The sharp contrast between good and evil is absolute. Also, my familiarity with Warhammer is limited to the total war adoptation, so I’m not sure what other girls we have to look forward to 👌

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29 minutes ago, >_< 0_0 said:

Ooh this cliffhanger I like! But hopefully we’re not hanging for long because this story in particular is absolutely wonderful. The sharp contrast between good and evil is absolute. Also, my familiarity with Warhammer is limited to the total war adoptation, so I’m not sure what other girls we have to look forward to 👌

There aren't a lot unfortunately. Really just two from brettonia, the fae  enchantress and a female knight, a couple wood elves, the queen of sexy vampires and a mummy

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On 3/25/2021 at 11:15 PM, SilverPathfinder said:

There is also the Tsarina from Kislev ^^

She'll need insulation from the cold.


21 hours ago, boss frond said:

very happy to see more of this one

Always fun to write a villain

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