May 2025 Sketches

For our bonus this month, Garr is training for an epic battle and Monty needs to recalibrate some new eating habits. Enjoy!

**************

"295…"

Garr grunted, gritting his teeth as he stared down at the floor beneath his clawed hands. The orange-scaled beast was deep in the midst of his gruelling training routine, pushing himself as far as his strength and power would carry him. A Guardian and celebrated Champion, the large, hulking beast prided himself on his strength. That, and the members of the Dragon Clan he had killed, in the name of the goddess Myria.

"296…"

He was one of the last. So many of his brothers had returned to the Stone Sleep, but he was still here, travelling the world, protecting the innocent and avenging the victims of the Dragon Clan. And he had not been idle in that time. Whether it was in the field or the arena, Garr had been training, growing wiser and, more evidently, growing stronger. 

"297…"

But he had to always find ways to push himself further. He was in the bowels of the arena where he made his name as a Champion, with an anvil and lead weights wedged between his wings and settled on his sprawling valley of a back. His heavily fortified arms churned, slab-like triceps flaring out, round, cannon-sized biceps tensed as he pushed himself up and down again.

"298…"

His dense, heaving pecs were thicker than any breastplate, and his caber-like legs were locked in place, straight as arrows and dense as columns. He thought of his long career. He remembered every last fight, every battle against the Dragon Clan. He had been the greatest Dragonslayer of the Guardians, with a total of…

"299…"

…Kills to his name. But there was still one left. He grunted, strain and aches setting in across his vast, densely packed musculature as he grit his teeth and forced himself into one last push-up, then roared as he leapt to his feet, the vast weight and heavy metal on his back clattering to the floor as he stood at his full height, wings flaring out— even the limbs holding them up were bloated with thick burls of muscle. He let his vast form spread out, the massive bulges of muscle rippling under his thick scaled skin, taking up space until he formed a wall all on his own between the dragons and those they would kill or subjugate. Garr breathed deeply, letting his vast pec shelf spread out to its utmost. He tensed his arm, bicep blooming as it jostled against his pumped shield wall of a chest, and grinned tightly. He was ready for his last dragon.

"300."

— — — —

Monty felt like he was going to have to kill someone for this absolute joke. The gator was supposed to be the star of the Pizzaplex. Everyone knew it, and yet, despite his undeniable star-power, he had been reassigned to quality check for the past month. He had spent the past month locked up in the kitchens, testing every single pizza that was served at the Pizzaplex— and as the largest pizza and entertainment complex in the country, that was a lot of pizza he had to eat— and it was all going to one place. 

The gator had hoped he would have a little time to reacclimate to things before he was reassigned to Gator Golf, because he knew, he knew that whoever was behind this— Freddy, probably, but he couldn't discount this might have been Roxanne. Whatever, no matter what size he was, Monty knew he was the real biggest star here, and as always, the show must go on. Just, it would be nice if he could walk. At all. 

A month of eating pizza on an industrial scale had taken its toll; the gator's bulbous, scale-crushing belly had grown truly gigantic. There were trucks smaller than his great, roiling gut, a practical sea of blubber that spilled out far past the rest of his body, smothering his legs, and dominating the outline of his body. His trunk-sized legs and chunky thighs were splayed out, partially submerged under his belly and now near-useless— Monty grit his teeth at the thought. His tail, even, had fattened up, another enormous anchor of useless pile of blubbery lard weighing him down. What appeared to be two enormous flour bags laid listlessly atop his belly, the plumped-up swells of his chest— his thickly swaddled arms mashed against his body when he moved it, even as he tried to pose with a putter. 

The mammoth jiggling mass of gator stewed; he was definitely going to have to find some way to get even with Roxanne and Freddy. Soon as he could shuffle or roll his way over to a computer or server, he would deal with them— but first, he needed to build up his strength.

He whistled at a passing S.T.A.F.F. bot. "Hey! You, pinhead— can I get some pizza or anything to eat? You want your main attraction to waste away, or what?" he huffed. It's not like he planned on starving, after all.