History Buff- Part 1

You wanted ~me~ this time around, and here I am, bigger and better! I'm still flattered ya'll wanted a story about little ol' me, so do enjoy!

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Renard breathed in deeply, gripping the barbell tightly. The hybrid was bracing himself to bench press his personal best, at three tons. It was a formidable threshold to cross— he could count the people he knew that could pull off such a mighty feat on one hand, but for the past few weeks, he had been training hard to count himself among them. He drew in one last breath, his chest pressing upwards like an advancing shield wall. The tawny fur coating his sculpted body rippled like fields of golden wheat, and his thickly roped arms locked.

He threw the deep reserves of his mighty strength into pushing the barbell up. His lupine muzzle wrinkled as he bared his fangs and let out a low growl, the barbell beginning to bow from the weight. His entire massive body was rocked, the lolf's leonine tail swishing madly. He could do this. The barbell was starting to go up- he could feel it, this was his moment.

Then, his phone started to ring. He exhaled out of frustration as the barbell came crashing down, his concentration shot. Shrugging his broad shoulders in defeat, the lolf pulled his phone out and sighed. "Yes, Mr. Chesterton? Sir… it's my day off. Are you certain this can't wait until…? Yes, I suppose if it could wait until tomorrow you wouldn't bother calling. I'll be there in a bit." Renard took another prolonged sigh, glancing back at the barbell. It would still be there when he got back, he thought.

A hasty shower later, his work clothes haphazardly thrown on, Renard rushed into the archives of the Kurst Museum, the lolf slicking back his mane of hair and muttering angrily to himself. At his usual work station were a row of artifacts that, apparently, were in desperate need of cataloging. The lolf shook his head, looking over a dozen or so dusty artifacts. They were nothing remarkable— a funerary icon from a Dominion tomb, a few trinkets from the Liang Dynasty, and then a rather nondescript, clay vial with a seal still intact.

"Alright, let's see… C149, C150, C151… all seem benign, no magical anomalies…" Renard shook his head. He knew what was going on. Chesterton was a weedy little runt of a lizard who came up to the lolf's chest, if that, and he liked nothing more than putting his titanic beast of an archivist in his place.

He stopped and frowned as he picked up the clay vial. The seal was black wax, with no discernable marking, and then he held it up to his ear, shaking it— there was still liquid inside.

"Now that's interesting." Renard muttered.

"You should drink it." A gravelly voice urged, making the lolf shoot up.

"Orrin?!" Renard looked over to a massive sarcophagus lying in the middle of the archives. "What are you doing back down here?"

Orrin was one of the star attractions at the Kurst; the mummified remains of an ancient Titan, a hero of the ancient past. A powerful cleric in life, Orrin had bound his soul to his mummy, and now served as the sort of friend to Renard who always had bad advice. Like now.

"And why would I drink something that's been fermenting in a dusty tomb for two thousand years?" Renard asked warily.

"I got brought down for my cleaning, what else? Don't suppose you could lift the lid? I'm suffocating in here."

The lolf rolled his eyes, hefting up the half-ton slab of stone with relative ease to reveal the massive cobra inside, an even more impressive specimen than Renard by several hundred pounds of muscle. "You haven't breathed once in two millennia, Orrin."

"It's an atmospheric suffocation. I've been staring at the same hieroglyph of the Eye of Horahk for three months." He sat up, unraveling the bandages that kept his arms bound. "Anyways, you should totally drink that."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because I know what it is." Orrin smirked, his tongue flicking out. "It's nectar."

Renard arched his brow. Nectar was legendary; besides a few precious drops kept in private collections, it was believed to have been extinct ages ago. A brew supposedly made from the blood of old gods, it was supposed to grant extraordinary powers— the sort of strength that would make Renard look puny.

"That's… interesting, but it's museum property." Renard countered.

"No it's not— it's mine." Orrin replied. "Black wax, right? It's Horahkteyan, keeps it safe against the desert sun. I had vials of the stuff kept tucked away, and I hid it all over the place for safekeeping. So it's my property, I want you to have it."

"Why." Renard said with narrowed eyes.

Orrin shrugged. "Can't I do something nice for a friend?" That facade cracked within seconds. "Ugh, fine. Well, I can't drink it anymore— it wouldn't do anything to me. You're the only interesting person I know anymore, I hope you could do something interesting with it."

"You're just looking to cause trouble."

"Yeah. Mainly for that stuck-up boss of yours." The mummified snake said. "So go ahead and drink it. Isn't there something you could do with a little extra burst of strength?"

Renard pursed his mouth, swirling the vial in his hand. "Is it safe?"

"Yeah, for a big guy like you. Go ahead, drink it— or I'll curse you."

The lolf shook his head. "Fine, fine." He fiddled with the seal, using his claw to puncture it. He sniffed the vial, surprised it still smelled decent. "You're sure it's safe?"

"Uuugh. Why are you being such a wimp about it? Drink it!"

"Alright, Saints." Renard tipped back the vial and drank it. The nectar was a heady brew, with an aftertaste that he could only describe as electric. "Huh." He looked down at himself. "I don't feel any different."

"Give it a second."

Renard frowned. "If you're playing some kind of joke, Orrin, I swear— Oh." Renard clutched his middle. He felt something roiling up inside his middle, like a firework was going off in his stomach. His stone-like abs tightened, and he could feel the sensation spreading, rising up to spread across his canyon-like chest and the landscape of back muscles, down legs sturdy as tree trunks until they began to buckle, and across heavily sculpted arms. "O-Orrin, I don't…" Renard slurred, his eyes rolling back as he swooned. The lolf hit the floor like a ton of bricks, the last thing he remembered before everything went black was Orrin's hissing laughter in his ear.

"Ugh…" Renard groaned, his head pounding.

"Finally, the drudge is coming back to us," a harsh voice grunted.

"We talked about this, don't call him that," a rich, sonorous voice responded.

"What…?" Renard felt something cold and hard against his cheek, his shoulder wedged against his chin. He was lying on the floor. Where was he? He blinked his eyes repeatedly until he could make sense of it all— he was on the tiled floor of a bathroom, and he spotted some hand towels embroidered with the logo of a hotel, The Triple Crown. "What… what happened?"

"He doesn't remember a thing? Of course not. This vessel has a weak mind." The harsh voice snarled.

"I forget things all the time, that doesn't make my mind weak," the rich voice countered.

"No, it's your stupidity that does that."

"Who— who's there?" Renard pulled himself up, feeling oddly cramped. His weight was off, and he felt clumsy on his feet— bloated, even. No, not bloated, but… heavier. Denser. Stronger.

"I'm a little hurt, Renard, I will admit— I thought we were getting along famously!" the rich voice said.

"He doesn't have to get along with you, he needs to put our strength to good use!"

God— these voices were pounding in his head. He swerved around, getting the measure of his surroundings, a well-appointed and fancily decorated bathroom, but he was alone. He then looked down at himself, and let out a roar in shock. He had grown huge.

The lolf, already a tank of muscle, had grown into a mountain. The bathroom mirror, which ran from wall to wall, was getting crowded with leonine and canine features and a wall of beef between. His fur was almost thinning over all that brawn, showing thick veins snaking over this new-found brawn. His chest alone seemed to double in mass, like a mustering shield wall. His swollen arms were like mountain ranges, his biceps swelling past the size of his head, big enough he could almost touch the peaks with his clenched fists. His thighs and sculpted quads were thick around as barrels. He was almost naked, spare for a blue speedo that strained across his sculpted glutes. Warped across the mesa of pectoral muscle that made up his chest was a tattoo, to Renard's horror. His shoulders, like rising tides, ate at his pillar of a neck, but then he leapt back, cracking the tile beneath his titanic weight.

Aside him were two even more impressive specimens— to his right was a great white lion, as mighty as a snow-capped mountain with a torso like a glacier and arms like winter storms. To the left was a black bull, fearsome looking as a volcano, mammoth shoulders bristling like a line of soldiers. Renard swerved around, seeing no one behind him. Aside from the mirror, he was alone. He turned back to the two other figures in the mirror. "Wait— who are you?"

The lion clicked his tongue. "Aw, we had so much fun last night! Well, I am Asumus Maximus! I am a Titan and—"

"Vitoran Emperor, yes," Renard said, jaw still fallen open. He had seen that noble face on many statues and coins— some even in the museum. He turned to the bull. "That would make you, uhm. Severus. Severus Domitian. Another Titan and Emperor."

The bull snorted, folding his arms. "You do well to look on in awe and fear."

"I— I don't understand," Renard shook his head. "Am I drunk? Have I gone mad?"

"Oh, nothing like that!" Asumus grinned reassuringly. "You drank nectar, so now you are a Titan, too! We're both here to make sure you get the hang of it."

"W-what? A Titan? I— I don't understand. I've studied Titans for ages. There's no mention of them getting voices in their heads."

"Hmph. Then I suppose you're special, aren't you?" Severus said flatly.

"What… what's happened so far?"

Renard watched the mirror as both Asumus and Severus exchanged looks, then the lion laughed. "Oh, well. we three had quite a night…"