May 2022- Rath and Zlatan (Patreon)

For an anonymous winner and Redec, we've got a pair of buff kitties this month! Enjoy, folks!

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There were many secrets out there in the galaxy, and many secrets about the omimatrix, but there was only one that Rath cared about- how to get bigger, stronger, and better-er at winning fights. He was a simple Appoplexian. Thankfully for him, he had a simple answer- a strange alien artifact that made him bigger and stronger than ever- where, how, and why didn't concern him much. The results spoke for themselves. A quick jab in the arm, and he felt the rush of power flowing through him. The tiger-like alien's muscles bulged and tightened, filling him to his very core with renewed strength and energy.

He drank it in, and Rath's already impressive musculature was augmented to titanic proportions. His broadside back spread out like wings, thick, heaving lats propping up his arms. His biceps now dwarfed his head- a pretty apt metaphor for how much he favored brawn over brains- and his triceps were like starship engines, powering his punches enough to crack asteroids. His heaving chest was like a steel wall, and his brick-like abs felt strong enough to take laser blasts. His thick, bloated quadriceps rippled as he bounced on his feet, his legs strong enough to crack the ground beneath him with a lumbering stomp. The adrenaline pumping, he let out a commanding roar that echoed across to the horizon, and he gave a toothy smirk- he felt like he could take on a whole army, and couldn't wait for someone to pick a fight with him now.

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Zlatan used to think that becoming Gerolt's minder was some punishment from command- but still, for the liberation of Bozja, he carried on through handling all of Gerolt's debts, keeping every drop of alcohol as far away from him as possible, and filling out every order for a new Blade of the Queen for the Warrior of Light. Eventually, however, the hrothgar had to step back and take stock, and realized that his saint-like patience had indeed been rewarded. Smithing, after all, is hard work, and does not tend to leave people feeble or soft. Somehow, chasing after Gerolt and laboring over the smithy had turned Zlatan into, by his reckoning, the biggest hrothgar in Eorzea.

His body was like the smithy's furnace- huge, tough of iron, and strong enough to bend and warp steel with little effort. His heaving chest was like the bellows, inflating with each breath until it jutted out far past his muzzle, and his resistance uniform couldn't hope to contain it. Along with his canyon-like chest and mountainous shoulders, his arms were harder than Garlean steel girders, anvil-like triceps and boulder-like biceps pumping with each swing of his smith's hammer. His core was thick and solid, the remains of his uniform warped and clinging to the swells of muscle densely packed together. His trunk-sized legs were heavy and powerful enough to send audible thuds with each lumbering step, drawing attention across the beaches of Gangos. Perhaps he could tell Gerolt to take a break, and he could try his hand and making a weapon- Zlatan grinned, seriously doubting there was any metal on Eorzea that could withstand his awe-inspiring strength- it was worth a try, anyways.