An Offering of Gluttony - Part 2 (Patreon Commission for C)

TAGS: Weight Gain/Hyper Weight, Obese/Blob, Jolly Good Fun, Extreme Weight Culture

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The effort needed to reach his face alone, just so the elders could exchange a few words, put everything in perspective: the climb took a good five minutes, not necessarily because of the distance traversed, but the simple fact that Pololi’s entire body had become such an enormity of flab that it was impossible to get good footing, not without sinking one’s legs entirely into all the fat folds. Even when reaching the top, a significant amount of neck pudge had to be physically pushed aside to make enough room for the ogre aspirant to speak clearly, it being a wonder how he could even breathe in there when no one made room for oxygen to flow. Despite this, Pololi was just as cheerful as he always strived to be, even more so if that was possible; the combination of having been the first victor of the Games in literally dozens of generations and having a body so colossal that he couldn’t move anymore had left him in a half-dazed state from which recovery seemed less than likely. He was half present, half gone to the spirit world already, almost as if him just being as gigantic as he was afforded him some degree of connection with the tribe’s gods… either that, or he was in a food coma, which was somewhat likelier. Regardless, he still had to be moved from his spot by the banquet table, and that meant getting every available hand to help push him towards the beach; when that didn’t work, additional help was procured via the use of logs and pulleys meant to roll the colossus across the ground without having to deal with as much friction. When that failed, and took up a significant chunk of the day along with it, the tribe resorted to the backup plan to the backup plan: tipping Pololi over and rolling him downhill. It was undignified and certainly unbefitting of someone who would soon be communing with the gods themselves, but it was either that or leave the poor guy sitting where he may, without hope of ever sailing out to sea before he thinned out considerably, which would defeat the purpose of the ritual to begin with. Better to suffer one last indignity for the sake of the cause; not that Pololi himself was about to complain, as to him, the fact that he had to be rolled over like some enormous living barrel was yet more evidence of his worthiness as an aspirant, proof that he had become so alike to his gods that the mortal world could no longer deal with him like it once was (barely) able to. He had become an inconvenience, so large that everyone else had to adapt to meet his needs rather than the other way around, and that? That was good. That was right, that felt right, and given that the very island itself seemed to be helping by way of a conveniently placed rumbling helping to tip the ogre giant over, then it had to be right; and as Pololi sensed the first whiff of salt wafting in the breeze, he knew that he would find his apotheosis out there in the waves. He’d already half-ascended anyway; his body was of such high calibre that there was simply no possible future in which he didn’t continuously become so much fatter that he would eventually collapse the entire island, either through the helping hands of his tribesfolk, or through his own. Sure, he couldn’t walk, but that wouldn’t stop him from devouring everything anyway; how exactly, he had no idea, but he’d find a way. Nevertheless, by the time he reached the beach, his head stuck firmly where his ass should be and vice-versa, the final stretch of work began, with the other ogres putting all their strength behind the last preparations, the first of which being to tip Pololi the right side up, all while carefully adjusting his sitting position so he’d end up sliding onto the finalized raft. To call that thing seaworthy would certainly be a choice, though whether or not it’d be a lie remained to be seen; it had been so long since the tribe had last constructed an actual, proper sailing ship (beyond the small canoes used by the fishers) that the knowledge on how to do so had slipped away from collective memory, requiring a great deal of improvisation and extrapolation that no one was quite certain had yielded any kind of proper result. It certainly looked like it could float, and once Pololi was placed on it, the many layers of wood didn’t immediately snap under the weight, so perhaps they would be lucky; the final test yet remained, but as long as the structural integrity remained as it was, the tribe could get to work placing the offerings of food around the Games’ winner, as if the aspirant was the centerpiece to a grand, floating feast that they were about to throw out into the great beyond. In all honesty, that wasn’t that far off from the truth; it just so happened that the tribe hoped that it’d be the gods who plucked Pololi from this world, rather than a hungry whale or a school of sharks. By the time they were done, or at least content enough with the arrangements that they figured they couldn’t do more, the tribesfolk took a step back and admired their handiwork; there was no way that colossus would float, much less do so with so little turbulence that not a single piece of the several precariously stacked piles of food would fall into the ocean… but they had to try anyway. They hadn’t come that far only to turn back at the last moment, not when they had someone ready to join the pantheon in their eternal consumption; it’d be a disservice to the gods and to Pololi as well! As such, though it left everyone biting their nails in anticipation, the plans proceeded as they’d been drawn, with the various fishers squeezing into their comparatively undersized rafts and canoes before throwing themselves at the ocean, letting the currents pull them away from Akea; far slower that time around, owing to the myriad of ropes tying them to the raft bearing Pololi, which steadfastly refused to budge from the sands. This was cause for concern; surely, if it couldn’t beat the surface friction of sand, then what hope did the raft have of floating? Still, they had to try, and before long the whole tribe was back at it, pushing the titanic wooden square closer and closer to the water; inch by inch, they won the battle, though at the cost of a great many sprained ankles and a few bent backs. Ultimately though, as soon as one edge of the raft was submerged below the water line, things progressed at an increasingly faster pace, until, before anyone knew it, the whole thing was off the island and on the ocean… where it, somehow, miraculously, didn’t immediately sink. In fact, it refused to sink, stubbornly clinging to the surface despite how much it looked like it should be at the bottom and immovable; one could only imagine that the gods themselves had intervened through Pololi, extending their power via their newest aspirant and messenger in order to hasten his arrival. Truly, the ogre had been blessed, prompting a wave of equally cheerful and tearful goodbyes from the tribe, as they watched the raft and its attendant canoes drift away into the distance, eventually vanishing beyond the horizon, the sadness only slightly underscored by the understanding that they would be with him soon enough. As for Pololi himself, he was only vaguely aware of what was happening around him; in between him being knocked out by how much food he ate and the ever-present understanding that he was to commune with the divine before the day was out, it was easy to fall into a semi-fuge state, especially considering there was very little that he could actually do. The ritual, prepared by the mystics before the raft was set to set, was runic in design, inscribed in the many logs underneath the ogre’s immense rump; one of the fishers had been given a powerful crystal, as well as the instruction to throw it into the sea after uttering a select few passages which the poor man had to spend hours memorizing. Only then would those responsible for towing the raft be allowed to return, and at full speed as well, for none were allowed to witness the moment of ascension but the gods themselves and the one lucky blessed mortal who they had handpicked to join them. Thus it was that, about an hour after departing from Akea, the ogre sailors collectively agreed that it was far enough, with the one responsible for triggering the ritualistic communion issuing the incantation and then throwing the palm-filling, slightly-glowing crystal as close towards the raft as possible, hoping perhaps that being close to Pololi meant that it would work better somehow. Almost immediately afterwards, everyone but the lucky giant turned around and began paddling back to Akea, knowing better than to stick around and incur the wrath of the gods for trying to spy on something they were not worthy of witnessing; this left Pololi alone with his thoughts, even more so than before, adrift in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by food that he couldn’t think to eat, much less be capable of doing so. Moving his arms was hard enough, but getting his mind to do anything other than mull over how fantastic it would be once he was seated besides the Great Father, forever gorging himself on endless repasts? That was the challenge, and one that he failed miserably at, one he kept trying to surpass even when the first droplets of water began to splash on him, even when he felt the waves lapping at him like they hadn’t before; he kept trying to focus on it, past the point where his bellybutton was below the surface of the ocean, all the way to when the raft, by then entirely submerged, broke apart completely, leaving him to slowly sink to the murky, inky depths. Yet he wasn’t afraid, for he need not breathe, nor eat, nor rest; he was, after all, about to commune with the gods, and in doing so, become something far greater; thus, he allowed his consciousness to wander and expand, to feel the water around him in a wider and wider radius, to feel as the ocean swallowed him and the cold set in, to feel as his rump slowly smushed against the sand and dirt at the very bottom, where no light could reach. The pressure around him was immense, threatening to compress him into a smaller and smaller volume until he eventually collapsed in on himself; how long had he been falling for? How far out was he that he could even go so deep? Pointless questions: the most important thing was that he was there still, he was alive, and he was beating out the pressure; in fact, he was winning, not just by remaining as he was, but by expand against the oppressive weight of the water around him, becoming larger and larger still even without the need for nourishment. He pushed the fluid away, as if to say that not only would he not be tormented, but he would impose his own rules upon reality, for he was a god, and as a god it was his purview to determine how things worked. He remained in this state for what felt like days, perhaps weeks or months, maybe years; time had a nasty habit of being hard to parse when one’s eyes couldn’t see the sun, and one’s body no longer required sustenance, thus depriving it of cycles to be counted. Pololi would fall into a state of slumber, only to wake up some time later feeling even larger than before, believing himself slightly closer to the surface, only to fall asleep again and repeat the sequence of events, over and over again. In a way, it was peaceful, as he had nothing to worry about; perhaps it was the ritual, or maybe his new divine nature, but he didn’t feel like he’d gone for any length of time without eating. In fact, despite him not having consumed anything at all in quite a while, he was more stuffed than ever before, as if something was filling him whenever he wasn’t paying attention, so much so that his body had to adapt in order to deal with all the extra mass. Pololi felt the currents lapping at him, flowing around his body as he forcefully displaced absurd quantities of water, his form expanding in every direction at the same time as his consciousness grew increasingly dispersed; he could still sense his body, but in a far more… diffuse manner, as if he was simply aware of how big it was without actually feeling any given stretch of it. He could only imagine that was necessary for a frame that large; if his brain had to keep track of all of it like it did before, there was a good chance he’d go mad within the hour! Yet, that too was more evidence of his divine nature, as surely no mortal should be able to grow so much that they created disturbances in the ocean itself, nor should they become so large as to qualify as part of the underwater landscape, slowly rising to the surface like a volcano. There was something familiar about this, though Pololi couldn’t tell what it was; he’d heard stories like these, though he couldn’t recall when or from whom, just as he knew of at least one other person who’d undergone the transformation, yet his battered mind couldn’t focus for long enough that he could remember their name. All that mattered to him was the growing, the fattening, the phantom force injecting him with further mass bloating his body until he was buried underneath his own flab; were he to be pulled from the ocean’s depths, he would be little more than fat rolls stacked on top of one another, with his hands and feet long-since buried underneath a pair of arms and legs that were nothing more than literal tons of pudge. As for his head, it remained spectacularly dry, given the sheer distance between it and the very top of the neck fat holding it safe inside a cocoon of his own soft, warm body. It wasn’t until an eon later, or perhaps just a couple of hours, that he felt something trying to intrude upon his space… or rather, a someone, a presence which made itself known and attempted to make contact with him, yet not in the conventional sense. It was an entity, yes, and one that thought much like him, but rather than words, it conveyed thoughts, patterns of signals that it hoped, perhaps, that Pololi would understand… and maybe retribute as well. Time passed yet again, with the growing ogre spending more of his waking hours attempting to decipher what it was he was “hearing”, before recognizing a voice; it was oddly familiar, like he’d heard it before, though he couldn’t quite put his fingers on where that might’ve been, as with each moment that passed, his life back on Akea seemed increasingly distant, as if it’d been lived by someone else entirely. It was fatherly, welcoming, nourishing; every word that it spoke made Pololi feel like he was back at home, back at Akea, sitting at a table with so much food in front of him that he could eat forever and still not run out. It was precisely this sensation that led to him reaching the startling conclusion that it may very well be the island itself speaking those disjointed words to him, as if reaching out for a lost child. That is, of course, until the individual utterances were chained together, and the first sentences came to be.

“It has been… long,” the voice spoke, booming and bassy, yet soothing regardless, “I was the last… the last and only…”

It was longing for something, and it had found it, that much Pololi knew. As he grew further still, the voice grew silent, at least for a while; perhaps it was waiting for him to become big enough before it blessed him with further knowledge, waiting until Pololi had understood what it was like to be big in a geographic sense… which he would, given that his growth seemed to be getting faster the wider he became. Foot after foot, the first mile was gained, and after that the next one came significantly faster, in sequence, until he was overtaking such large amounts of the ocean floor that Pololi was left wondering whether he’d smash into Akea at some point. Perhaps that was the idea: himself and the other island, joining together to create even more land for the ogre tribe, providing even more ample grounds for them to feed and gorge themselves, until at some point, the whole ocean, however big it may be, was turned into a paradise, a heaven where all mortal ogres could live as their gods did. And for Pololi, this was a noble-enough goal that he couldn’t help but smile, even if no one could see it; he felt himself bloating, and that was all it mattered, the depths discernible as the temperature gradient from the top of his body to the bottom became increasingly noticeable. He was headed to the warmth of the surface, all while his rotund mountain of an ass was still firmly plopped on the bottom, and that?

That was exactly what he was meant to be.

“But I was happy,” the voice spoke again, seemingly content with how big Pololi had become, “I would go, that my own could stay. A home for them, among the waves,” the voice carried on, “built from me, from myself. Bountiful and everlasting, resting on the bottom of the endless blue.”

It was Akea. But was it? Akea only ever spoke to the tribe’s mystics, occasionally the elders, almost never to anyone else; communing with them was seen as a great gift and privilege rather than a given… though, then again, Pololi had just undergone the ritual after winning the Games...

“And now you, chasing gods. There are no gods down here. The Great Father blesses us, to become as homes to our kin. Blesses us, to be as we are, forever. Blesses us, for our own to survive. To feed them. To shelter them. To hold them. To nourish them. Only when all are as such, will the last feast begin… but now, this is just as good.”

The surface was fast approaching. Pololi could feel himself: colossal, unthinkably huge, his form already sprouting with new life to be harvested and hunted, to serve as a home for their people. Everything, from the lowliest of berry bushes to the greatest of fruit trees, raised itself from his body; he was the substrate upon which they would grow, and with his form being the gateway for the divine, he would never run out of power with which to fuel this new island paradise. Soon, he would be walked upon by those he had left behind, and sooner still he would be as a god.

Truly, it was Akea who spoke to him, though not to provide their blessing, for Akea was merely one of his own, another aspirant who, unthinkably long ago, had gone through much of the same process that Pololi himself had. It did raise the question of where they had come from, but that hardly seemed to matter anymore, not when the ogre felt his neck fat breach the surface of the water; would that he’d be capable of seeing anything, would that his head weren’t buried, that he might see as his colossal self took over the waterline, promising yet more land for the tribe to live upon, yet more bounty for them to feast on.

It was his fate.

“You are the second,” Akea spoke once more, pride obvious in each word, “of many more. May the Games begin anew.”