The second part of the Decline and Collapse of the Palamani Dominion! Commissioned by  luprand, follow Yves on a fat-astical journey through history as he tries to get back to his own time, expanding the Dominion, and his own horizons, like never before!

Let me know what ya'll think, and please keep in mind I am still open for commissions! So if you like what you see, let me know!

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Yves ©  luprand
Story, Palamani © c'est moi

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Davus stormed into The Legionnaire’s Rest, throwing open the door and nearly snapping it off its hinges. “I have had enough!” the hulking stag roared. “Taurus! For the good of this town, I demand you hand over your -”

“Prefect Davus?” All of Davus’ bravado and anger was released in an instant when his head snapped over to a new, rich voice. Standing above the Prefect was a tiger, her monumental, bulging body draped in a rich, purple chiton, and gold bands warped over her huge, rippling arms. This was a Strategos, a noble and governor who was a direct representative of the Imperator himself.

“Y-your Excellency,” Davus muttered, quickly saluting the tiger.

“What is the meaning of this?” the Strategos asked in a deceptively even tone.

“Just… a minor disturbance of the peace, Strategos.”

“Mhm.” The Strategos seemed unconvinced, but such matters were beneath her purview. “Well, do try to relax, Prefect. Might I recommend you have dinner here? I just had the most wonderful meal, and I have half a mind to tell the Imperator himself of the quality.”

“The… food here?” Davus canted his head, calling for the Strategos to come close. “Your Vastness, do you know what the food here is doing to the people of this town?” He gestured to still more of his soldiers sporting significant guts poking from under their tunics. “And have you seen the owner?”

The Strategos rolled her eyes. “Really, Prefect. This may no longer be the golden age, but the Dominion is at peace and Jidou is scarce. If the people are content, fat and happy if I can coin a phrase, then I'm content. I care more about a peaceful and stable province than the discipline of some backwater garrison. Do you understand, Davus?” The Strategos crossed her arms, biceps digging into her voluptuous chest and straining her purple robe, casting the stag in her shadow. “Remember your place in the grand scheme of things.”

Davus gulped. “Y-yes, Strategos.”

“Good man.” The Strategos patted the stag’s antlers, and then turned to leave.

When the tiger had left, Davus’ servile look melted away as he looked at Taurus with indignant rage, snorting angrily. He stormed over to the black bull, who was currently nursing a jug of wine.

“You miserable sod, Taurus! You made me look like a fool in front of the Strategos!” Davus stormed, knocking the jug out of his hand.

Taurus grunted, half drunk. He had been taking in a lot of wine. “What in the seven hells did I do?” he asked, punctuated with a belch. The owner of The Legionnaire’s Rest had gone to seed in the most blatant way; point blank, he had gotten fat. The bovine sported a belly that had the size and shape of a cauldron, and arms, once roped with taut, bulging muscle, had gotten soft and plush. His hips were heavily augmented, and his posterior filled the seat, and then some, his legs soft and overly thick as he propped them up on the table.

“Look at you. A captain and veteran of the Imperator’s indomitable legions, now a pigling. How could you let this happen to you?” The Stag snapped his fingers. “Don’t answer that- I know what it is. It’s your miracle cook. Where is he, then? Where is that little sack of lard that’s plagued this once robust town with gluttony and sloth?” Davus demanded.

“Uhm… you called?” Yves stepped out from the back with a tray laden with juicy steaks, still sizzling on their plates.

“Right, you little… little…” Davus narrowed his eyes as he took in the dog. He wasn’t so little anymore. Though still far beneath the Prefect’s level of size and strength, Yves’ arms had grown thick and powerful, with a meaty chest and broad shoulders that were beginning to strain the straps of his apron. He had clearly been taking liberal samples of his own cooking, as his own middle had only grown, supported by wide hips and strong thighs.

“...Yes, Prefect?” Yves arched his brow, setting down his tray.

Davus looked at the shep incredulously, grabbing his arm and shaking it, like he was convinced the padded muscle would fall off. “How did this happen?”

“Uh… I’m a growing boy?”

Davus growled. “Don’t be smart with me, little man.” He prodded Yves’ gut. “How do I know you’re not a spy? Your cooking is undermining the discipline of the garrison of this town! We’ll be helpless if there’s an attack!"

“A spy?” Taurus rocked out of his chair, his gut wobbling. “Come on, Prefect. A spy for who? We’re hundreds of miles behind the border, in spitting distance of Virtus. We’re hardly on the frontier of the Dominion.”

“Look at you!” Davus ranted. Finally, the tavern’s patrons were beginning to tear themselves away from their meals and staring awkwardly at the Prefect. “Look at this!” The stag took two handfuls of the bull’s fat. “How could you call yourself a Palamani with this?”

“I dunno…” Taurus shrugged. “It’s not like we’re expanding or fighting anyone. My time in the Legion was just walking from one end of the Dominion to the other.”

Davus threw up his arms in frustration, shouting incoherently. “You!” He pointed back to Yves. “Come to the barracks tomorrow! I’ll show you the damage you’ve done!”

There was an awkward silence when Davus stormed out, but soon, the patrons returned to their meals, many of them already planning to ask for seconds.

Yves’ ears drooped at the Prefect’s words. “Is… is he right? Have I done damage to this town?”

Taurus scoffed, patting Yves’ broadened back. “You? Please. Look at everyone; they’ve never been happier, and I’ve never been richer. I could retire tomorrow and live comfortably for the rest of my life, if I wanted to. The Prefect’s just paranoid.” He eyed Yves’ tray. “Now, uh… do you have that dark colored pastry you told me about? The really sweet one?”

“Dark colored… oh!” Yves snapped his fingers, and smirked. “You want the chocolate cake.” He draped an arm over Taurus’ sloped shoulders, his own arm now considerably more impressive than the bull’s. “A chocolate cake is pretty complicated… I’ll need a bump in my Jidou.”

“Oh, please,” Taurus chuckled. “You can take as much as you want! You’ll teach me how to make it, right?”

“Of course,” Yves patted the chunky bull’s shoulder. “And I might…” he produced a large cake from the pantry, covered liberally in chocolate frosting and decorated with raspberry fondant roses. “...I might just have one already freshly baked.”

“Ah!” Taurus clapped his hands, and grabbed the pastry, taking fistfuls of the cake and shovelling it into his mouth. “Mmph…” he sighed contentedly. “It’sh amazin’,” he murmured through bites. “How did I ever live without you, Yves?” he gasped, licking chocolate frosting from his fingers.

“Heh, it's a mystery…” Yves watched Taurus shovel the cake in his mouth with… decidedly mixed emotions. He enjoyed being appreciated, celebrated, even, and people deferring to him was not an unpleasant experience. And if things kept going the way they were, Yves could end up the strongest man in town, which wasn't a wholly unattractive prospect, given all he had put up in school. On the other hand, though, the dog had watched enough sci-fi specials to know that messing with the timeline whilst time traveling was never supposed to be taken lightly. Never mind that he was still no closer to finding a way home. But, really, how much damage could be done by interfering with the history of some nothing town in a small province?

Not wanting the Prefect to interrupt meals at The Legionnaire’s Rest, Taurus had been rather insistent that Yves meet Davus at the barracks the following day. The barracks were built into the stout stone wall that ringed the town, a small fort punctuated by short, squat towers and the emblem of the Dominion, three muscular arms all grasping at a sword, emblazoned above the main gate. Even before entering, Yves could hear Davus bellowing orders and insults in equal measures.

The shep poked his head through the gate, and saw the stag stalking up and down training yard. Davus was inspecting twenty soldiers, all of them out of shape, and noticeably fat.

“You disgusting, pitiful excuses!” Davus stormed. “Look at you all!” The stag approached the fattest one of all, the fox the Prefect had previously taken under his wing. “Captain Valerian! I want you to give me twenty push-ups, right now!”

“Uh…” Valerian gulped, his chins wobbling. His gut, a red, furry blob so big a shield couldn’t cover it, was now sagging over the waistband of his trousers, sticking out a foot in front of him and pressing up against thick, blubbery thighs.

“I said now, Captain!” Davus bellowed, taking a handful of fat in either of his hands, shaking the fox’s belly roughly. “If you don’t even have the strength to give me twenty push ups with this useless weight on your body, what chance do you have against the enemies of the Dominion?”

“R-right sir, yes sir,” Valerian whimpered, and immediately dropped to his belly. He placed his hands on the ground, trying his best to get into a proper position, but he couldn’t go down.

“Is there a problem, Captain?” Davus snarled.

“I-I, uh…” Valerian gulped. “I-I can’t go down…”

“Oh, is that all?” Davus asked in a deceptively even tone. “Then let me help you, Captain.” He placed his hoof on the fox’s flabby back, and pressed down, until his belly spread out, squished against the ground. “PUSH YOURSELF BACK UP, YOU USELESS WASTE OF FLESH!”

“Ahem.” Yves stepped forward, frowning at the stag. “You wanted to see me, Prefect?”

“Ah.” Davus stepped off Valerian, smirking as he loomed over Yves, pumping up his meaty chest and bumping it against the shep. “Come with me, little fatling.”

Yves stood his ground against the stag’s chest bump, and followed the Prefect to his office. There was a map of the Dominion plastered against one wall, and two provinces had been pinned with red flags. A small pile of letters stacked up on his desk, marked with red stamps that made them look urgent.

“Alright, little man,” Davus growled. “Do you have any idea what’s going on in the Dominion?”

“Uh…” Yves tried to think back; it was the year 310, and from what he remembered during Professor Albert’s classes, there were a few key details he knew. “Valentulus Maximus is the current Imperator, and he’s been reigning for ten years, now.”

Davus grunted. “So the most basic details even a simpleton could remember are not beyond your grasp.” He drew his sword, and pointed the blade to the two provinces on the map marked with red flags. “These provinces are ruled by the Imperator’s sons, and since Valentulus refuses to name either of them his heir, they have gathered their allies and have all but declared themselves in open revolt. The Imperator believes his sons need to burn out their rage, but the more cynical amongst us know that civil war is more than likely.” Davus turned and pointed his sword at the shep, glaring down at Yves. “You are making my job very difficult, fatling. My troops would be utterly crushed by the legions the Imperator’s sons could muster.”

“Maybe you make the job difficult for yourself,” Yves countered, feeling defensive. “Maybe your soldiers wouldn’t flock to The Legionnaire’s Rest if you weren’t a tyrant to them.”

“I am instilling discipline in soldiers that desperately need it! Look at them- soft, fat, slovenly,” Davus spat on the ground. “Disgusting.”

“You’re being a bully!” Yves declared, crossing his arms.

Davus drew his sword again, pointing it at the canine. “Don’t test me, little dog. I want you out of my town, but you and your cursed food are so bloody popular, merely killing you or forcing you out would put me in bad standing. So, what do you want? Why are you really here?”

Yves had slowly been backing away from the sword, but when Davus spoke, he sighed. “I’m… lost. I just need to find a way back home, alright?”

“Then I can give you a map,” the Prefect snarled.

Yves shook his head. “It’s… not that simple. I, ah, need the aid of a mage.”

“Well, there are no mages here, so I suggest you go elsewhere.”

Yves shook his head. “I need to stay here.” He had plenty of time to think on this. He knew that his college would, centuries later, be built on top of this land, but if he left the village, there’s no telling where he would end up.

Davus began drumming his fingers against his desk. “You are trying my patience, fatling.”

“My name is Yves.”

The stag rolled his eyes. “I don’t care. I need you out of my town. So I will call for a mage to come here, but in that time, you will not serve any of my soldiers. Is that clear?”

The shep sighed. “Very well.”

“Then we have an understanding.” Davus offered his hand. Yves was reluctant to take it, but when he did, the stag clenched him in a vice grip, tensing his huge arm and pulling him close. “If you make more trouble for me, I’ll break you in half. Is that clear enough for you, Yves?”

It took a lot of effort not to flinch, but Yves managed it. “Crystal.”

Davus let go, and gestured to the door. “Then get out of here.”

Yves took a deep breath walking back to The Legionnaire’s Rest, but when he got back, he stopped in his tracks. A handful of burly workers were swarming over the inn, dragging in wooden beams and poring over building plans.

“Taurus!” Yves called, jogging over to the fatty bull. “What’s going on?”

“Ah! My favorite chef!” Taurus gestured to Yves, clad in a new robe that did little to hide his prominent belly, soft chest, and flabby arms. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’ve made me rich in the time you’ve been here. I’m expanding! Having a Strategos coming to visit, saying that she’ll pass on word to the Imperator? My little inn is going to be a resort! I’ve gotten letters from local nobles telling me they’ll be passing through our town, and they want to stay here!”

“Uh… wow.” Yves ran a hand through his curly blond hair, his own arm bulging considerably. “You’re not sad, are you Taurus? About the- you’re not… you don’t…” he patted his own thick gut to emphasize.

“What? Oh- oh! This?” Taurus hefted his gut, and then let it drop, that cauldron-like gut wobbling and nearly spilling out of his robe. “Let me tell you something about the Dominion,” he rested his flabby arm across Yves’ broad shoulders, the bull’s soft flesh squishing against the dog’s considerably harder build, “the Palamani have stalled out. We spent centuries conquering the whole world; Roland, the God of Strength, was on our side! But then the Jidou ran out. Just… died out. I was there when the Da-Zhou Empire collapsed. It’s total chaos over there. So, what are we supposed to do? We’re left at the top with nothing to do, because there’s no one left to conquer. All the Dominion can do is ration Jidou where we can, hoard it when possible, and hold on as long as we can.” He patted Yves on the back. “The age of Legions of giants with bulging muscle, marching across the known world, crushing everyone under our boots, is over. We need to find something else to do, now. Do you understand?”

“I… I do. So, you’re comfortable looking like this?” Yves asked.

Taurus laughed, and his whole torso wobbled. He canted his head for Yves to follow as he waddled back inside. “I did the strong, stoic soldier thing. Do you know what I did with it? I marched from one end of the Dominion to another, poked some rebels with a sword, then retired. Never married, never had kids, never had fun. I’m probably never going to run again… but what I do know is that your food tastes better than anything, and I want more of it. I feel good eating it. Davus’ men feel the same. They can either drill until they’re sore, waste ten years of their lives, and if a war comes on, possibly die; or, they can sit in my inn, maybe meet a nice girl, and eat as much amazing food as they can stand. Which would you choose?”

“I mean… when you put it like that…” Yves crossed his arms, thinking. “You wouldn’t mind if I had more Jidou, would you?”

“Please!” Taurus gestured grandly. “Take as much as you want. I’ve lost the taste for the stuff…” he glanced over at Yves. “But I haven’t lost the taste for that sweet brown stuff… the chocolate?”

Yves rolled his eyes, and smirked. Lumbering over to the pantry, he produced a plate filled with chocolate croissants and pressed it into the bull’s hands. “I know how to take care of my biggest admirer.” Yves winked, giving Taurus the old reach-around as he squeezed the bull’s blubbery rump.

“Ah!” Taurus yelped, a slight blush throwing a splash of color through his black, round cheeks. Almost immediately, however, he shoved one of the croissants in his mouth, sighing contentedly. “Whenever you have to go, promise me you’ll leave me a storeroom filled with chocolate.”

The shep chuckled. “Just so long as you promise not to eat it all in one sitting.”

The expansion of the inn was well-timed; the amount of customers The Legionnaire’s Rest were receiving was growing, as were the customers themselves. As days passed into weeks, and Davus’ promised mage was nowhere in sight, Yves had no other plan but to continue cooking and drinking Jidou liberally. Almost a month later, with winter starting to set in, Taurus waddled into the kitchen. The bull’s bulbous belly entered the kitchen a couple of seconds before he did; and managed to fill the doorway. Taurus grunted with the effort of squeezing into the kitchen, already trying to catch his breath walking to the kitchen from his usual spot in the corner of the dining hall. His new, fancy robes somehow drew even more attention to his heft, cradling and framing his massive stomach that had grown almost bigger than Yves when he first arrived. His fat face sat atop a small mound of chins, which in turn sat on a saggy chest. His once strong, thick arms had lost all pretense of hard-won muscle, and his chubby thunder thighs rolled off one another with each labored step.

“Y’got an order… big one,” Taurus huffed, helping himself to a pastry sitting out on a tray. He handed over a scrap of paper to Yves with a large order scribbled on it.

“Meat pies… fried fish, beef stew, almond cake… wait a minute.” Yves shook his head. “I know this order.”

The shep lumbered out of the kitchen, not noticing that he, too, was having trouble squeezing through the entryway. He marched his way to the table, crowded with all-too familiar, flabby figures.

“Captain Valerian,” Yves sighed, crossing his beefy arms over his vast torso. “What are you and your men doing here?”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about, stranger,” Valerian gulped. The fox had barely lost any weight, wearing a hooded cloak to hide his face, but neglecting to think that his round, soft belly poking out from under his shirt was all too noticeable.

“I know Davus forbade you all from coming here. I don’t need him tearing the inn apart with his bare hands.”

“Oh, come on, Yves, please,” Valerian begged. “Don’t you know what’s going on? The rebellious provinces are up in arms. We could be called up at any moment, and… look at us…” he gestured to all his men, all doughy, soft, and verging on the edge of obesity. “This could be our last decent meal.”

Yves rubbed his forehead, shaking his head. “Fine. One meal, and that’s it.”

“We get seconds, right?” Valerian asked excitedly.

“And dessert?” Another tubby soldier asked.

“I…” Yves sighed. “Sure. So long as you got coin. But this is the last time,” he ordered, to the cheers of the soldiers.

Valerian and his men nearly pushed Yves to his limits, eating nearly half the food served that night. When the shep saw them leave, he swore one of them was being rolled out. It should have been no surprise, then, when he received a strongly-worded letter from Davus.

“Well…” Yves sighed, looking at the angrily worded letter. “Davus is a more creative writer than I thought he’d be…” he muttered, counting the number of times the Prefect described how he would have the canine torn in half. There were nearly a dozen.

Steeling himself, Yves lumbered across town and into the garrison, and pressed himself into the Prefect’s office. “Davus?”

“You!” The stag shot up from his seat, stomping over to Yves. “You blubbery, weak, gluttonous fat…” Davus faltered when he stood mere inches from Yves, and realized the weak, little shepherd he had first met now stood at least an inch taller than him. “....fatling?”

“You wanted to have a chat, Prefect?” Yves filled the doorway as he crossed his arms, now built like a particularly powerful and overfed gorilla. A constant stream of rich food and Jidou had done its work; his gut was taut and vast as a timpani drum, his arms thick and heavy, roped with particularly excessive muscle. His shoulders scraped against the doorposts, mountainous and a perfect frame for a vast, meaty chest, his mammoth torso supported by tree trunk-thick legs and wide hips.

Davus snorted, tensing his muscular arm and palming his fist. “I have had enough of you!” He roared, and swung his fist right into Yves’ gut; he might as well have been punching a mountain, as the canine didn’t even budge an inch, and Davus staggered backward from the reverberation.

“What… no. No!” the Prefect raged. “Come on, come on! Fight back like a man!”

Yves idly flexed his bicep, now swelling bigger than the stag’s head. “Gladly.” He wound up his arm, balling his fist tightly, and then smirked at the last possible second; he had a surprise for Davus, as he summoned a cream pie, and hurled it at the Prefect’s face.

Davus’ eye involuntarily twitched as the pie pan slid off and clattered on the floor, his face coated in fluffy cream. “W...what?”

Yves sighed, leaning against the wall. “I don’t want to fight you, Davus. I can’t control how much people eat at The Legionnaire’s Rest. All I can do is wait until the mage you said was coming shows up.”

“I wrote to Vralstag Tower,” Davus grumbled. “I haven’t heard anything ye…” a glob of cream landed on his tongue, and he was forced to swallow it down. “I…” he took a finger, and wiped off another bit of the cream, tasting it again. “This… tastes amazing…”

“I’ve never had a complaint.” Yves shrugged. “I can wait for the mage a while longer. I’ll offer you an olive branch, Davus- come in to The Legionnaire’s Rest whenever you want, and you can have whatever you’d like, on the house.”

Yves turned on his heel, lumbering out of the office, but stopped at the door. “And if you ever swing a punch at me again…” he rolled his mountainous shoulders, shoving his tensed triceps into the sides of the door, splintering the wood and cracking the walls, making more room for himself. “I might just hit back. I never have, but there’s a first time for everything.”

Later that night, Yves was pleasantly surprised to find Davus in the dining room, with Captain Valerian and his men huffing and waddling to keep up with the Prefect’s gait.

“I was told I had a free meal here,” the Prefect said to Taurus, whose belly was filling his seat and spilling over the bull’s preferred table. “Whatever my men have will be on my tab,” he added. The Prefect turned to Yves, and sighed. “My mother used to make strawberry fritters, with rhubarb and an almond glaze. She owned a bakery.”

Yves grinned. “Plate of strawberry fritters coming right up.”

The shep needed only a moment to summon a plate of fritters, placing it before the Prefect, warm and fresh, and with a tantalizing, sweet smell.

Davus gave a glance to Yves, and then gingerly grabbed the first fritter. He took a bite, and immediately frowned, looking like he might spit it out.

The canine’s face fell. He couldn’t have gotten it wrong, not now. “Do you not like it?”

“It’s just like mother made,” Davus grumbled through gritted teeth. And with that, he polished off the first fritter, and immediately moved for the second one. Yves and the Prefect seemed to have reached an accord.

Another week passed; Davus and his soldiers were at The Legionnaire’s Rest every night. When Yves was called out front to see a visitor, he passed by Valerian; the fox had quickly ballooned to the fattest patron of the inn, with a massive landmass of a belly, spilling over his round, flabby thighs and a good third of it sitting on the table, his plates resting on the crest of his gut. His long-beleaguered chair creaked ominously, and as Yves passed him by and patted his soft, round shoulder, the chair snapped, and Valerian landed with a whump, his men cheering and laughing as he did.

“More fritters, Davus?” Yves asked as he passed the Prefect. The stag’s arms and shoulders were still powerfully built, but they were already covered in a thin veneer of fat. His armor was ready to burst, the metal warped around a gut the size and shape of an overstuffed sack of grain.
“...Yes,” the stag grunted, trying to suck in his gut and evidently failing.

When Yves lumbered outside, he was met with half a dozen hooded figures, all broad-shouldered and overly muscled. Their long cloaks were all stamped with a symbol of a hand wreathed in flame.

“Yves the cook?” one of them asked.

“...Yes?”

The biggest among them pulled back his hood, revealing a ram. “We are the mages of Vralstag Tower. And we hear you’re in need of our services; how fortuitous. Because as it happens, we’re in need of your services.”