Heavy Chest

Lancelot wipes the sweat from his brow and recounts the tavern stories he's heard of Never Croak. Set the scene.

Lancelot stands at the edge of the cursed forest, his hand resting on the hilt of his trusty sword. The air is heavy with an otherworldly stillness, broken only by the distant hoot of an owl and the rustle of leaves underfoot. The twisted oaks loom overhead, their gnarled branches reaching out like skeletal fingers, as if beckoning him deeper into their dark embrace. The blighted flowers that carpet the forest floor emit an eerie glow, casting an ethereal light that dances and flickers in the shadows. Lancelot's heart pounds in his chest as he recalls the tales he has heard in the taverns, of lost souls and strange fey creatures that haunt the depths of Never Croak. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself for the unknown horrors that await him within.

As he steps further into the forest, the air grows thick with a sense of foreboding. Lancelot's senses are heightened, every sound amplified, every rustle in the underbrush sending shivers down his spine. The twisted trunks of the oaks seem to whisper secrets, their voices carried on the wind. He can almost make out faint murmurs and laughter, but when he turns his head, there is nothing but the haunting silence of the forest.

Lancelot's grip tightens on his sword, his eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of movement. The deeper he ventures, the more the forest seems to warp and shift around him. The trees contort into grotesque shapes, their branches intertwining like the limbs of twisted creatures. The blighted flowers become more abundant, their sickly glow casting an eerie pallor over the landscape. Lancelot's heart quickens, his breath coming in short gasps, as he realizes that he may have underestimated the true dangers that lie within Never Croak.

Employ a timeskip, as his body feels weaker, frailer...

Weeks pass as Lancelot delves deeper into the cursed forests of Never Croak, his body growing weaker and frailer with each passing day. The once stalwart knight now finds himself stumbling over roots and struggling to lift his sword. His armor feels heavier, weighing him down like a burden he can no longer bear. The blighted flowers that surround him seem to mock his feeble state, their sickly glow casting an eerie light on his haggard face.

Lancelot's mind is plagued by strange and unsettling visions, his thoughts growing ever fleeting and elusive. He can no longer distinguish between reality and illusion, as the dark magic of Morgatha, the powerful hag, entwines itself within his very being. His once strong and noble thoughts are now clouded with confusion and doubt. The chivalric code that once guided his actions feels like a distant memory, slipping through his fingers like sand.

As Lancelot gazes at his reflection in a still pond, he is shocked to see a face that is no longer his own. His features have softened, his jawline less defined, and his hair has grown long and flowing. He touches his face in disbelief, feeling the delicate skin that has replaced his rough, weathered complexion. Panic rises within him, but he fights to maintain his composure. He must find a way to break the spell that Morgatha has cast upon him, or risk losing himself entirely to the whims of the hag's dark magic.

Suddenly Lancelot is pulled to the ground, a building pressure thumping throughout his chest when all at once... Bwoomp! Two orbs of fat begin filling beneath his chest and spilling out his chest plate.

REWRITE:

Weeks turned into months as Lancelot ventured deeper into the cursed forests of Never Croak. With each passing day, his body grew weaker, his steps faltering and unsteady. The once mighty knight, known for his strength and valor, now found himself struggling to lift his sword, the weight of his armor becoming an unbearable burden. His muscles, once taut and powerful, now felt frail and feeble, as if drained of their vitality by some unseen force.

The blighted flowers that littered the forest floor seemed to taunt him, their sickly glow casting an eerie light on his gaunt face. Their petals, once vibrant and full of life, now drooped and withered, mirroring the state of Lancelot's own being. He could feel the weight of the ancient magics that permeated the air, as if they were seeping into his very bones, sapping his strength and vitality.

But it wasn't just his physical form that suffered under the curse of Never Croak. Lancelot's mind became a battleground of confusion and doubt. Strange and unsettling visions plagued his thoughts, blurring the lines between reality and illusion. He struggled to hold onto his once noble and chivalrous nature, as the dark magic of Morgatha, the powerful hag, twisted and manipulated his every perception.

As Lancelot caught sight of his reflection in a still pond, he recoiled in shock. The face that stared back at him was no longer his own. The sharp angles and rugged features of a knight had given way to softer, more delicate contours. His jawline had softened, and his hair, once cropped short, now cascaded down his shoulders in long, flowing locks. It was as if his very essence had been altered, transformed into something unfamiliar and unsettling.

Fear gripped Lancelot's heart, threatening to consume him entirely. He knew that he must find a way to break the spell that Morgatha had cast upon him, to reclaim his true self before he became lost forever in this twisted realm. With every ounce of his remaining strength, he steeled his resolve and pressed on, determined to unravel the mysteries of Never Croak and free himself from the clutches of the hag's dark magic.

Suddenly Lancelot is pulled to the ground, a building pressure thumping throughout his chest when all at once... Bwoomp! Two orbs of fat begin filling beneath his chest and spilling out his chest plate.

Lancelot's heart raced as an intense pressure built within his chest, a sensation unlike anything he had ever experienced. The force was overwhelming, and before he could react, he was violently pulled to the ground. Gasping for breath, he clutched at his chest, his eyes widening in disbelief.

And then, with a resounding "Bwoomp!" two orbs of fat began to fill beneath his chest, pushing against his armor and causing it to strain and creak. Lancelot's mind reeled, his thoughts consumed by confusion and disbelief. How could this be happening? What foul magic was at play?

As the orbs continued to grow, spilling out from his chest plate, Lancelot's panic intensified. He struggled to rise, but the weight of his own body and the expanding orbs made movement nearly impossible. The once noble knight now found himself transformed, his physique altered in a way that defied all reason.

The forest seemed to echo with mocking laughter as Lancelot fought against the overwhelming sense of humiliation and despair. He had become a mockery of his former self, a knight burdened not only by the weight of his armor but also by the weight of his own body. The twisted magic of Morgatha had taken hold, twisting his very being to suit her wicked whims.

Determined to break free from this curse, Lancelot summoned every ounce of his remaining strength. He refused to be defeated, to succumb to the hag's malevolent enchantments. With a surge of determination, he pushed himself off the ground, the orbs of fat jiggling beneath his armor as he rose to his feet.

Lancelot's resolve burned bright within him, his eyes narrowing with newfound determination. He would not allow himself to be a pawn in Morgatha's game. With his sword clenched tightly in his hand, he set forth once more, ready to face the horrors of Never Croak and reclaim his true form, no matter the cost.