Strong Urges- Part 2 (Patreon)

The Dark Urge has amassed the strength to throw down with archdevils, and, always happy to have a loyal following, is starting to think about what he can do next with his enormous musculature...

Enjoy!

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Sir Zarofas, a member of the Order of the Gauntlet, was waiting impatiently in a tavern room above a street in Neverwinter. The dragonborn had hired an adventurer to deal with a strange new cult that had been causing problems for the city; the Jaxians were unlike any other evil cult he had dealt with in his long career. They were motivated, and more worryingly, they were powerful— a cult of people obsessed with getting stronger and stronger, enthralled by cursed belts of giant strength. He only hoped his hired adventurer had not fallen to the same allure…

The heavy, earthquake-inducing thuds told Sir Zarofas that his hopes may be dashed.

The albino dragonborn that then forced his way into the paladin's room was massive; a beast with thickly corded muscles packed on to his dense frame, scales rippling under the pressure of hundreds of pounds magically enhanced on to his body. Tav, as he had insisted on being called, grinned toothily at Sir Zarofas, looming over him and leaning forward to see the paladin past the dense shelf of pec muscle.

The other, smaller dragonborn balked, stepping back as his hand reached for his sword. The white scaled, musclebound beast chuckled deeply. "Is that anyway to thank me, Sir Zarofas? The Jaxians are pacified. I can guarantee they won't be a problem for the, heh, good people of Neverwinter."

"That is hardly the most reassuring thing you could say. What have you done?"

"I've taken them over." He flexed his arm, his eye glinting as his bicep swelled to a huge, pleasing size. "The control, the power… it's exactly the tonic I needed. You have no idea the relief I feel, and I've come to thank you for this opportunity. And discuss what comes next."

"What comes next?" Sir Zarofas shook his head. "What comes next is you hand over that belt so the Order may neutralize the threat. That was our agreement."

"I am altering the agreement, Sir Zarofas." The dragonborn planted a hand on Sir Zarofas' shoulder, swallowing it whole. "I can alter it further."

The paladin's eyes went wide, feeling the weight and strength keeping him anchored where he stood. "Do not expect me to go down easily."

Another rich laugh, Tav's pecs heaving and mussing his long-suffering tabard. "Sir Zarofas, you needn't die. In fact, I'll give you one of the belts…" he held out another, smaller belt of giant's strength. "It's the last one we have. Go on. Put it on."

Sir Zarofas looked at it, and the Dark Urge's smile widened— he could see this implacable paladin beginning to break under the temptation.

"Wait— wait." The paladin held up his free hand. "I know who you are— who you really are. You've titled yourself The Dark Urge because of… certain influences."

A genuine flash of malice came into the dragonborn's eyes. He growled low, his huge body rumbling. His grip on Zarofas' shoulder tightened, his claws puncturing the paladin's armor. "Be very careful about your next words. I could crush you like an ant. I wouldn't even have to think about it."

Zarofas winced as he felt the draconic mass monster's claws dig through his armor and into his own flesh. "You have spent your life under an influence you didn't ask for, that you've tried to suppress, but has always sought to control you— are you really only interested in exchanging one such influence for another?"

The Dark Urge's eyes narrowed. "Explain."

"The cursed belt. It's altered you, it's influencing you— Ah! Ah!" Zarofas was driven to his knee as his scales were punctured, blood dripping from his shoulder as the huge dragonborn forced him down.

"I am not taking this belt off! You have no idea how sweet this relief is."

"Th-then don't!" the paladin grunted. "But only, allow me to remove the curse."

The Dark Urge eased the pressure on Zarofas. "How can I trust you?"

"Because I am a knight and a paladin of the Order of the Gauntlet— I have been honest and upfront with you in all our dealings. I can remove the curse as a blessing, but I cannot undo the enchantment. I don't have that magical skill. You'd still have this… power."

The Dark Urge stood back to his full height, towering over Zarofas. "...Very well. But if you try anything else, I will paint the walls with your blood."

The paladin's mouth thinned, but he did not respond. Huffing slightly, he placed his hand on the huge, ornate buckle of the studded belt, and murmured a prayer to Bahamut. The subtle passing of divine magic was palpable to the Dark Urge, and at first, he felt nothing. But then, there was a touch of clarity that slowly grew. The desperate hunger to grow bigger and stronger quieted, and then he was truly, finally, alone with his thoughts in his own head.

The Dark Urge's stance straightened. "By the Gods… Yes. Yes, I see it all so clearly, now."

Sir Zarofas eased his own stance. "Do you?" he asked with cautious optimism.

The massive dragonborn looked down at the paladin, a softened expression on him. "I am… sorry I doubted you or treated you harshly, Sir Zarofas. You were true to your word. But I can reach out to the weave, now… I know who, or what, if you like, placed the curse on the belts the Jaxians covet."

"Really? Who?"

Dark Urge smiled bleakly. "You say you know my history, Sir Zarofas, so you surely know that I have… experience with darker powers. I recognize the stench, now… it smells of brimstone, wrath, and ambition. What do you know of the Nine Hells?"

The paladin's own brow furrowed. "I know enough. You think an archdevil is responsible?"

"Quite possibly… of the archdevils that would be in need of, let us say, fresh recruits, one stands out. An exiled servant of a disgraced Prince of Hell, Duke Amon. He delights in brutal conquest and overwhelming strength…" his gaze turned admiringly to his mountainous physique, idly flexing and tensing the bristling burls of strength in his arm. "Such delights lend themselves very well to the type of bodies the Jaxians now possess." He turned his gaze back to Sir Zarofas. "I'll make a deal with you, if you're interested."

The smaller dragonborn folded his arms. "I'm listening."

"Give me leave to track down this Duke Amon. With the curse lifted, I can take him down and banish him back to the Nine Hells. Leave the Jaxians to me, as well. Grant them clemency for their crimes, and let me lead them. I will control them to a more productive purpose."

Sir Zarofas shook his head. "I can't let you just walk away with wanted criminals."

Dark Urge gave the paladin a meaningful look. "First of all, what you will let me do is of little consequence." He struck a pose, hunching forward and curling his arms, biceps pressed against his swollen chest, the scaled beast filling the space of the room. "I am offering to take the Jaxians off your hands, and take down a demon. Those both sound like things that a paladin would approve of. I strongly urge you to reconsider."

The paladin sighed. "I suppose I have no choice."

"There we are." He tossed a belt to Sir Zarofas, smirking as he began squeezing himself out of the room. "A gift for your cooperation. I'm sure you know what to do with it."

The Jaxians gathered in the ruins of old Castle Never to hear their new leader's plan. A dozen powerfully built, cursed cultists filled the space of the crumbling hall as The Dark Urge took to the dias. The white mountain of a drake cast his shadow over the others, his eyes clear and fiery with purpose and determination. "My friends, we have been deceived. What is our purpose here, as Jaxians?"

There was a slight pause as the others looked between them. The dragonborn could always count on Erildar, though. The elf stood up, thumping his deep chest. "To be stronger, and stronger still!"

The Dark Urge grinned. "Correct. But, we find ourselves limited— all of you, deep down, know that my…" he paused to chuckle, thinking of Duril languishing away in some Neverwinter dungeon. "My predecessor was only too happy to accept the gifts these belts have given us without question. But I have learned that there was a cost that none of us considered— these belts are cursed by an archdevil of the Nine Hells. Not only will he demand our souls, he will limit us! And if there is one thing the Jaxians should never allow, it is to be limited in our strength!"

There was a great cheer that went up from the other Jaxians. Their leader's toothy smile spread wider. "We are about to fight for our liberation. Thanks to a paladin that may soon join our number, I know the demon that haunts us. Duke Amon is a powerful foe, but we will overcome him. He skulks in the ruins of Dragonspear Castle— let's send him back to Hell where he belongs!"

The following morning, a dozen or so musclebound adventurers gathered their belongings and left their hideout in Neverwinter behind. They were joined by a certain gold dragonborn, now too big for his armor. Sir Zarofas, now carrying a hundred pounds of extra brawn and the belt girded around his sculpted torso, hefted his mace over his broad shoulder. He glanced between the Jaxians, clearing his throat.

"Well… I'm a paladin. I have an oath to uphold, and I heard there's a devil that needs banishing."

The Dark Urge grinned. "And you are welcome. Though I am tempted to see how far we can push you…" he studied Sir Zarofas for a moment. "I can see you twice as big under our tutelage, easily."

Sir Zarofas laughed nervously, but said no more as the Jaxians began to move out. The trek to Dragonspear Castle would take ten days; that was ten days to train, to grow stronger, and to grab every advantage they could. The Dark Urge was a stern and unbending leader— none of the Jaxians would slip in their daily routines and training, and every bit of gold was spent on stocking up on potions, gear, and anything that could make them the smallest bit stronger.

It was a clear evening when they finally crested a hill on the High Moor, and saw the crumbling ruins of Dragonspear Castle reaching up like a grasping hand to the starry sky above. The Dark Urge narrowed his eyes studying it. Without the influence of the belt, the old urges were whispering in the back of his head again, to kill, maim, and destroy. They were whispers, as easy to swat away as if they were a fly. The training helped. Growing his muscles and pushing his body kept them at bay… but what if they got louder? He finally had a taste of freedom, and he would do anything to keep it, even face an archdevil single-handedly and wrestle it into submission.

His body was primed to take the castle— he had charged his body into a siege weapon, his arms thick as anvils and a chest like a shield wall, mountainous shoulders and legs as round as wine barrels. He tensed his body, his scales rippling as his muscles bristled. His gaze turned from the castle to Chala, the female half-orc and one of his more trusted followers.

"Sir, the castle is not empty. I scouted the outer walls, and there are creatures inside— vampires, possibly drawn to the archdevil."

The Dark Urge scoffed, bearing his teeth in a sadistic grin. "A warm-up, then. We will make quick work of them."

"We could rest and wait for the morning, when they're at their weakest." Chala recommended. "Save our strength for the fight with Duke Amon."

The dragonborn turned sharply to the orc. "That is no plan befitting a Jaxian. We attack at night, and crush them at their strongest— showing just how much stronger we are." He punctuated his point by thumping his chest, the sheer cliff of pectoral muscle rippling.

Chala nodded curtly. "As you wish it."

Thirteen over-muscled, unnaturally strong adventurers proved to be more than a match for the coven of vampires skulking in the crumbling walls of Dragonspear Castle. Only two were full-blooded vampires; the rest were thralls that crumbled before the sheer walls of brawn that crushed them under their sheer mass. Zarofas and Erildar were entrusted with keeping the two most powerful of the vampires alive and restrained— The Dark Urge had plans for them.

Using his magical skills, the massive dragonborn found Amon's summoning circle, and instructed the Jaxians to place them in the center of the circle. He turned to the assembled cultists that had followed him to this forsaken place. "My friends, I have one last request to make. We stand on the precipice, now— Duke Amon will be summoned here, at this circle, and then I will break him. But for that, I require that you all lend me your strength."

He held out his massive arms. "If you give me your belts, and their power, I can overwhelm this archdevil. We can be stronger than him— and then, we can truly make our mark on Faerun!"

The Dark Urge had won their trust and loyalty, and so, the Jaxians handed over the source of their power, wrapping the belts about his swollen arms, as bandoliers across his sprawling torso, and the dragonborn braced himself.

"Kill the vampires— summon Duke Amon now!" he grunted, as the power radiating into his body began to take hold, an overwhelming, ecstatic surge of power coursed into his veins. His fiery eyes locked on the summoning circle as it began to glow. A dark shadow passed over the castle, and a giant form began to take shape. A humanoid body with oversized muscles, topped with a fierce wolf's head. In its huge hands was a massive mace, the end also shaped like a snarling wolf's head.

"Who dares to summon me?" the archdevil demanded in a voice that rolled across the moors.

"I do." The Dark Urge growled, and his body unleashed the building energies pulsing through him. The already gigantic beast surged, the leather of the belts groaning and nearly snapping under the pressure. His engorged thighs inflated into stony masses as round as carriage wheels, those immense, earth-shaking pillars holding up a mountain that eclipsed the castle around them. His titanic back was as sprawling as the High Moor, a tapestry of muscle in thick burls, mountainous shoulders surging up to swallow his bull-neck, the peaks of his shield-sized traps eclipsing his head while his castle wall of a chest surged up to meet his thick jaw. At last, his arms, monuments of overwhelming strength, with biceps the size of boulders and slabs of tricep muscle that could crack stone were he to bring his weight down to bear.

Duke Amon stepped back in shock at such an awe-inspiring opponent, but the dragonborn, now bigger than some of the magnificent beasts that his race claimed descent, wasted no time. He rammed into the devil, hitting him with all the force of an avalanche. Duke Amon howled, slamming his mace down on the dragonborn's back, but the mass of muscle he now possessed was now so impossibly thick, the damage was only surface level— indeed, the Dark Urge barely felt the impact.

The archdevil escaped his enemy's grasp, and rained hellfire down upon him, bathing the Dark Urge in unholy flame. The pain finally ate at him, singing his scales, but even as he staggered, cracking the stone beneath him as he went down on one knee, he dredged deep into the seemingly infinite wells of strength in his great body.

Letting out a primal war cry, the Dark Urge brought his force to bear down on Duke Amon, punching the archdevil in his snout and knocking out a fair amount of fangs. Amon reeled, and the Dark Urge grappled him, overwhelming the devil and burying him under his own mass. "I could crush you like a grape, Amon! You will hear my demands."

Amon snarled and thrashed like a captured animal, but relented. "Name your demands!" he spat.

"Remove the curse you've placed upon these belts— free my followers and their souls."

"Done!" Amon snarled.

"And grant me even more strength. Strength to equal a god!"

Amon groaned. "Done, it will be done!"

The Dark Urge smiled wide, his eyes alight as he looked to the Jaxians bearing witness to this show of power. "You see? He breaks before us! But now, there is a greater evil, a stronger evil we will test ourselves against— we will train hard, my friends, and get stronger still— for we will bring our might to bear against Baal, the Lord of Murder." He looked down at Amon, his voice dropping. "It's time I visited my father."