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Prompt of the Week - Week 47
🕑 Added 2021-05-15 14:18:21 +0000 UTCTAGS: Entirely Unnecessary Worldbuilding, Weird Fantasy Names, Extreme Hyper, Macro Hyper, Colossal Dragons, Cocksleeve
Author's Note: Yeah, try making sense of those tags, my friends.
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Upon the great plains of Alazeth there was born a great shadow, cast by a being of such grand scale that to think of them was to surrender oneself to madness, a wyrm of such unimaginable proportions that their very power was the sole reason the planet itself did not yield to its mere presence; all those who lived, did so under the watchful gaze of Jargormul, Father of Dragons, Magnarch of Wyrms, for all those who lived only did so because their kindly draconic overlord so ordained. So powerful was he that all life living upon the world could be wiped clean in but a breath, all forests uprooted with a single errant twitch of their sky-blotting wings, and all possibility for recovery dashed as the very ground was sterilized and the seas rendered barren to the microbial level, transforming a once-vibrant pearl into a dead rock with a few dashes of colour to it. Not that such a thing would ever come to pass, for Jargormul, ever in his greatness, would never be so uncaring as to outright destroy those who would serve him so well, for after all, what was a king without his kingdom? What point was there to rule if there remained none over which to rule? Thus it was that he decreed life everlasting, or at least as lasting as their frail mortal bodies could go for before inevitably keeling over and perishing, making room for the next generation of worshippers to provide yet more sustenance to their overlord. To Jargormul himself, the specifics of it mattered very little, if at all; just as long as he was offered his tribute whenever he demanded it, and was given exactly what he requested with minimal fuss, then he assumed things to be going exactly as he ordained them to, and thus, all was well. He would often spend months, years even flying through the skies, not bothering to land as his presence was made known to all the peoples of the world, a sharp reminder of what would descend upon them if they were to so much as begin to doubt the veracity of the legends; not a singular soul yet remained that didn’t know who he was, where he was, and just how powerful he could be if his might was not contained: mountains were flattened under his crushing paws, plains ravaged and replaced by canyons, but life too could bloom whensoever he decreed it should, for Jargormul wielded powers of creation just as expertly as he did the powers of destruction. He was, in all essence, a living, breathing god, one whose body was so great that it could envelop the planet had he not chosen to coil it like a great, heaven-bound serpent. Even that wasn’t enough, however, as most of the time he still managed to cover entire nations’ worth of space unless, like at that exact moment, he deliberately contorted himself so as to fit over a relatively modest chunk of land, that being the colossal, continent-spanning plains of Alazeth, ‘pon where dwelled the nomadic peoples of the Alezeen. Unlike so many others, these simple folk had not once been forced to grant tribute to Jargormul, mostly because the great dragon himself believed them unable to serve up anything that could sate his ravenous appetite; how would disparate tribes still eking out an existence that was mostly migratory ever hope to satisfy him, he who would take hoards for himself as a matter of course, he who would terrify whole hosts of minor dragons, he who could snap one of their many claws and have the riches of entire kingdoms laid upon him, that he might melt them into an ocean of gold and silver for his amusement? As it would turn out, they could provide quite a lot; it was precisely this lack of attention on the wyrm’s part that had allowed the Alazeen to amass great stores of wealth, especially one plundered from neighboring countries, vast amounts of coin, jewels, trinkets and other valuables that was jealously guarded in one of the few permanent settlements that served as regional capitals for their civilization. Even so, with the plains of Alazeth being mostly empty grassland, such a thing would’ve eluded Jargormul’s attention… if not for the emergence of a great warlord, a vulpine whose martial prowess was such that all tribes of the Alazeen bowed to him and his riders, paying tribute to what many of their kind were calling the next coming of the mythical Saddled Prince; it was a silly story, at least as far as the dragon was concerned, regarding a great war leader who would lead their tributes to glory and honour on the battlefield, one whose spirit, whose very essence was transferred from body to body over the generations, occasionally churning out someone with enough knowledge of logistics and grand strategy that the nomadic Alazeen were put on the warpath… until said great leader inevitably perished, be it from old age, betrayal, or some completely innocent accident or illness. Jargormul had seen this happen countless times before, and this one would be no different, had the latest incarnation of the Saddled Prince not taken a liking to wearing gilded armour decked in so much jewelry that it bordered on the obscene, along with making their personal guard don much of the same sort of armor and ceremonial clothes; clearly, if they could afford to do such a thing, then they could afford to pay tribute, regardless of how high and mighty this new fox found himself. Surely, they would not be so thickheaded as to actually believe that they could fight against him, the Magnarch of Wyrms, and come away unscathed… which made it somewhat confusing when the first reaction to the dragon’s emergence from the heavens was not terror, not existential dread, but a grand celebration having already been prepared in advance. Upon Jargormul’s obvious confusion, the Saddled Prince himself stepped forth, explaining that his people’s greatest scholars had tracked the great wyrm’s movements and the portents of the stars, having then divined that they would finally be visited by the great Jargormul, Father of Dragons; oh, and how happy they were to have him, to finally be able to put on display the great wealth of their civilization, that they may make merry and celebrate, for the Serpent of the Clouds had at long last descended to bless their miserable lives! Such excitement abounded, clear on all those present, to such a degree that for the first time in his existence, Jargormul felt the uncomfortable sting of uncertainty; none of what he was seeing made any sense whatsoever, as never before had he had the privilege of actually being welcomed into whatever land he chose to plunder. For the little ones living on the world that served as both his perch and throne, his descent from the skies was a portent of doom, not joy… at least until he had deigned to visit a single place enough times that the first cults began to form. For the nomads of that Alazeen to welcome him so made very little sense in his mind, and smelled incredibly strongly of some sort of deception; perhaps they sought to poison or weaken him in some way, or mayhaps the Saddled Prince did truly believe that he could cut down the great wyrm in a moment of supposed weakness. If that much was the case, then they were sorely mistaken… but as the festivities continued for several days, enough that Jargormul had to softly land upon the plains as he waited for them to end, the dragon began wondering if he hadn’t just succeeded at making such an impact on the collective psyche of the Alazeen that they had resorted to outright worship even before he first met them in person. Legends of theirs spoke of the great Serpent of the Clouds, certainly, but never in reverent tones, which just made everything look more suspicious with every hour that passed, at least until the priests showed up. The clergymen, dressed in the ceremonial attire of whatever religion it was the plains-dwellers followed (for Jargormul knew not what it was, nor cared to learn), bowed before the great wyrm, announcing that they had been preparing the tribute as ordained by their Prince; within a single day, the draconic god would be presented with the greatest treasure of their civilization… provided he flew to a mountain range in the southernmost reaches of the plains of Alazeth, where it had been hoarded for his easier consumption. Had Jargormul any eyebrows, he would’ve raised them all at that request being made of him, but after days of pointless partying, he’d had enough; with a single motion, he rose once again towards the heavens, leaving the celebration site in ruins as he dashed through the clouds towards his destination, wondering what it would be that might be waiting for him. A day to wait; pah, they’d be lucky to get ten minutes.
Did they not know who they were dealing with? The power that lay waiting within him? They were lucky he was feeling merciful, and thus didn’t simply wipe their entire line clean off the face of the planet for the sheer insolence of having him wait on his well-deserved tribute; he had half a mind to simply seal it inside a mountain and then glass the exterior to such a degree that it would be permanently inaccessible, leaving them wallowing in their own misery for the crime of wasting his time… or would, if the actual treasure itself had been the conventional kinda. Jargormul wasn’t aware that his brain could process surprise and confusion of such high intensity, but after scouring the mountains south of the Alazeth and finding the one spot that was richly decorated enough to bother looking into, what he saw wasn’t a pile of riches, nor a hoard of gold, nor even anything technically material in terms of wealth. Rather, there waited for him a vixen, no older than thirty, dressed in a dress that was at once both simple and yet evidently sumptuous, at least in regards to the velvet and silk it was weaved from; the maiden herself was evidently of high birth, judging from the elegant poise that she maintained even as the sky was darkened and a great wyrm descended from the parted clouds, or perhaps she was simply too sheltered to understand the sheer amount of danger that she was in. Yet, as Jargormul approached her, what initially looked to be a simple offering of flesh, a pitiful little snack that would not even begin to sate the full appetite which drove him to create and then devour entire hoards, began to shift into something far more sinister. Being as well-versed in the arts of magic as he was, the dragon could detect even the most subtle of enchantments and incantations, with his eyes seeing the world as an odd, aetherial mixture of the physical and spiritual; typically, most mortals’ forms held only a fraction of themselves as the latter, with the vast majority of their being situated in the former… but not that vixen. Unassuming as that smile was, disarming even as she held it even when Jargormul placed his snout as close to her as he could go, the wyrm knew that she was hiding something; a very big something, if his vision was not deceiving him, for the aura of magic surrounding this one mortal was so powerful that even he, with his power being on such an elevated plane compared to any other living create on that world, had to squint and look away before the sheer radiance burned through his skull. Therein lay a living battery, a nexus of power in the form of a seemingly mundane vixen, a wellspring of magic so deep that it was all, as far as Jargormul could sense it, well and truly bottomless; yet, despite this, they seemed unable to wield it, as far as the currents swimming around their form would indicate. Rather than rolling around the vixen’s body in rhythmic displays of aetheric mastery, the lights instead remained stable, unmoving, like this young woman was some sort of magical lantern rather than a practitioner of the arts; this alone was enough to give the wyrm pause, doubly so when he began realizing that what he was seeing might not be coming from the vixen, but rather be on her. Instead of it being her innate power that he was nearly blinded by, it was in fact a shell of sorts, keeping whatever was inside of it well-hidden from even his experienced eyes… which begged the question of what could possibly be so dangerous that it needed that level of magical concentration to keep from escaping. Was this the grand weapon that the Prince wanted to use against him? Had all of this been a trap, and the Alazeen had expected him to fly off without being prepared? If that was the case, then bravo he said, absolutely stunning display of divination, but ultimately, entirely worthless; if they truly believed that any one mortal could ever so much as hope to one day equal him, much less defeat him, they were sorely mistaken, which was precisely why Jargormul felt no fear, no apprehension, when the young vixen stood up, performed a short curtsy, and then promptly snapped her fingers. What followed happened quickly enough that the wyrm knew not what actually took place, only that the shell surrounding the offered maiden ceased to be upon the moment the snapping’s sound reached his ears; as if it had never been there, the blinding light vanished, leaving only the afterimage burned into Jargormul’s retinas… and in its place was the vixen, not as she was initially seen, but how she truly was. In a singular instant, the dragon knew true fear, as he was given just enough time to take in that which he had so eagerly dismissed as being naught but folly; in his hubris, he had believed himself above any attempts at dethroning, far beyond the capacities of mortals to even so much as dare to think to challenge. And yet, was he not, too, a child of the earth? Had he not once hatched from an egg before seizing power for himself, aeons before? Was he, himself, not proof positive that it was possible for one of lower station to achieve so much more than their natural-born talents might first indicate? How dreadful it must be to have become to blind to one’s own limitations, to believe that because one wielded great power, then they must then clearly have no great weaknesses; to his credit, Jargormul at least had the convenient fact that he was, ultimately, physically gigantic, making it slightly difficult for anyone to actually harm per pure logic… but he had never considered the possibility that someone else might become bigger than him, especially without him noticing. Thus, it was with no small degree of surprise that he looked on at something that looked like a phallus, a cock of such immense proportions that if it ever lodged itself within his mouth, it would still have enough left to spear through most of his body and leave him wrapped around it like some sort of prophylactic, a though that Jargormul had to work exceedingly hard to remove from his head, lest it affect his ability to think properly. And upon seeing this thing, this colossus of a shaft, he understood why it was that the vixen had the shell placed around her, for this was her as she truly was: impossibly gigantic, equally productive (at least if those mountain-smothering nuts were any indication), and, judging by the sort of noises coming out of her throat, desperate for a lover who could take her at her full size and not rupture at the seams. Perhaps, Jargormul thought to himself as he felt the first yards of cockmeat push themselves into his mouth, this truly was the Alazeen’s version of a thoughtful gift. Perhaps they believed that a godlike wyrm such as himself felt lonely after spending such a long time flying around the clouds without any companionship, and while they lacked the ability to create for them a mate of similar body shape, they could certainly find one of similar size; this, at least, was what the dragon thought of when he felt more and more of his long, serpentine body be wrenched out of his control, as somehow he was both pulled onto that titanic shaft or… no, it was growing, it was getting larger, it wasn’t him being pulled onto it! Jargormul’s eyes went wide at the revelation, but it was the bare truth, made increasingly obvious the more he felt his insides being rearranged by the phallic form of a cock that had just begun to reach a half-turgid state. It had been so long since he last felt his entire body be stimulated in such a manner that the wyrm lacked any frame of reference for how to act, and as miles upon miles of his scaly self were turned into an equal amount of stretched-out wyrm, wrapped around a dick too massive to truly be comprehended, then for once, Jargormul felt powerless.
Though oddly enough, not in a way that made him any less of a god than what he was already. If anything, being granted such a divine consort as that vixen, one whose sheer size was such that the mountains south of the Alazeth had ceased to be, was proof positive that he was, in fact, worthy of such a splendid gift. Gold could be mines, hoards minted, even cities could be built, but someone like them? Like the vixen goddess who was turning his body into their personal cum dumpster? Surely, this was a once in a lifetime event, one that he was to savour, as it would most certainly last for an eternity… or at least as long as it took for him to fill up.
After all, the first spurt of pre already doubled his body weight.
