CallaThey weren't kidding, things did get harder. The struggle to take down the beast took everything the duo had, but the way Calla fought, it wasn't just power and rage, there was a hunger in her strikes. She changed.
What once was a nimble frame — capped shoulders, faint abs, legs built for bursts of speed — had become something almost unreal. Her shoulders were broad now, thick with muscle that shifted like coiled rope beneath her skin. Her torso rippled with a deep-cut eight-pack that looked more carved than grown. And her legs... tree-trunk thighs that powered every strike, every step, as if the ground itself braced for her weight. She had to stop wearing armor because of how quickly she outgrew it, all of it... in just a few months.
Panting over the beast, her eyes never leave its wound.
Thinking better of arguing with a barbarian, Hour makes their way back through the forest, only to remember their spear lodged in a tree trunk. Circling back, Hour is about to step into the clearing again when they hear Calla chanting.
Looming over the corpse with outstretched hands, the chanting deep and foreign, a red energy emanating from her digits. The corpse convulses and spasms before a plume of energy flows from its wound. She breathes it in like smoke, each passing moment the body shrinks until it is no more.
Her moan reverberates through the forests as new fibers snake their way down her shoulders and arms, chest burgeons against her fur top, abs dig deeper and bulge, quads and glutes swell beneath her kilt.
Hoisting her battle axe onto her shoulder, she sees Hour watching in the brush. Her eyes narrow with malice and hunger.
What once was a nimble frame — capped shoulders, faint abs, legs built for bursts of speed — had become something almost unreal. Her shoulders were broad now, thick with muscle that shifted like coiled rope beneath her skin. Her torso rippled with a deep-cut eight-pack that looked more carved than grown. And her legs... tree-trunk thighs that powered every strike, every step, as if the ground itself braced for her weight. She had to stop wearing armor because of how quickly she outgrew it, all of it... in just a few months.
Panting over the beast, her eyes never leave its wound.
Head back to the guild, I'll dispose of the body, don't want to attract scavengers.
Thinking better of arguing with a barbarian, Hour makes their way back through the forest, only to remember their spear lodged in a tree trunk. Circling back, Hour is about to step into the clearing again when they hear Calla chanting.
Looming over the corpse with outstretched hands, the chanting deep and foreign, a red energy emanating from her digits. The corpse convulses and spasms before a plume of energy flows from its wound. She breathes it in like smoke, each passing moment the body shrinks until it is no more.
So tasty.She purrs while licking her fingers as if savoring the last bits of a decadent meal.
Her moan reverberates through the forests as new fibers snake their way down her shoulders and arms, chest burgeons against her fur top, abs dig deeper and bulge, quads and glutes swell beneath her kilt.
Hoisting her battle axe onto her shoulder, she sees Hour watching in the brush. Her eyes narrow with malice and hunger.
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