13 or 2 for barian of choice
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He’s not a Barian Lord. He really isn’t, not any more… but a part of him says that he should have kept the pride of one, at least in appearance. Because the man that was staring back of him was all red-faced and pathetic, with full cheeks that supported crooked glasses, brow furrowed to match his, telling him that it’s his fault.
And it is really. It’s his fault for turning to food to comfort rather than his comrades. If Mizael saw him now… how pathetic he looked… Durbe would have laughed bitterly, really. He had gone soft. Softer than ever- softer all around. A slight curve of a chest, and a much larger one for a gut; one that made every top he wore ride up. A sagging sphere painted with red and dark stripes alike. Durbe gasped for breath, sweat pouring down his face at the simple activity. He just wanted to button his shirt up- the one he wore from before the war began- but his stomach refused to give way.
The bed creaked nosily as Durbe sat down, fat spreading from his rear and rolls bunching up. With a small cry, he tried to pull his pants up, wiggling past his thighs, but not getting it over his ass. He was so big now that, besides his scarf, none of his old clothes fit him. He was a real fatass… Nothing like his friends. Nothing like a Barian. Nothing like the old him- a leader and a knight.
Just…
He waddles for his larger tops and pants he’s settled for these days and he puts them on. He supposes he should get a bigger size soon too.