#fat!Travant

[pangtasias-atelier]

In The Snow

So this was mostly a bunch of random ass rambles as a lil treat for finally getting Travant to +10. Not much form or comprehensive thought to this but Travant hot and interesting so I pray his refine is good whenever he gets that in like a year lmao

Warning: The story below is fetish work

"Thank you kindly good sir," What appears to be the village elder emerges from the safety of her home. Despite winter being well underway, several inches of red stained snow now also filled with holes from her cane, she manages to swiftly make her way to the town's sudden savior despite her age.

"A winged savior ain't no shock to us, but a dragon knight sure is! Especially one at your age," Her vision on the same level as her joints, she gets a clear look at her listener as she looks up at her tall hero.

"I was merely passing by. There's nothing strange with a wandering mercenary," Several decades of time etched on his body, the 40 something years old man is appropriately dressed for the climate despite his claim. A thick cloak covers the entirety of his upper body. The material is matted with chunks of ice and snow mixed with smatterings of blood. Even with the blood coating the fabric and linings of fur, its wearer sustains no injuries himself.

"A mercenary huh. Then I suppose you'll be wanting your pay. I suggest you stay in town for some time while we get your pay all ready. We only got one inn but I'm sure it'll be to your liking, the portions they serve should suit you," Done with the conversation, she promptly walks off to some other house without waiting for so much as a response.

The only response she receives is a glare and someone pulling his coat tighter around himself.

Heeding the elder's advice, he eventually finds himself seated at the inn after booking a room and situating his wyvern with an apologetic smile and an extra serving of food for having to fit into an almost tight stable clearly designed with the graceful, slimmer figures of Silesse’s pegasuses in mind. With nothing to do besides wait, he slouches in his seat with one elbow on the table. The chair uncomfortably tight, the armrests dig into his large thighs, his love handles even squished by the sturdy material. A few other patrons in the room, he ignores them all in favor of brooding to himself in the corner. However, he catches a few glimpses of the others, the attention he gives them only a result of them failing to sneak a few wary glances at him in the first place. Mercenaries nothing more than interchangeable and forgotten names and people to one another, the air around the striking man commands the room despite him now being reduced to nothing but another sellsword. Knowing that none could ever place a name to his visage, the worry still whispers to him, gnaws at him in the confines and crumbling sanctity of his mind. The livelihood of a mercenary is earned through bloodshed is a simple fact that all know yet never speak of. Yet he has killed far more men than any other mercenary could ever dream of, more than they could unfathomably kill in several lifespans. Except where most would only kill through violence, weapons cleaving through harsh steel to pierce flesh, he has killed more men through words than actions.

Thracia is a near uninhabitable deathscape for all unfortunate enough to live there, so what could a king do to ensure his people’s right to happier, more fruitful lives but unsavory solutions. Once proud to do everything in his power for a prosperous, unified Thracia, the unyielding costly toll of time only served to soften him. To weaken him. He had been able to come to terms with the inevitability of his death, the path to the future paved by piles of still fresh blood that lined his hands. Except his blood seemed to want for nothing more than to see him suffer through his own actions, Travant still somehow alive despite wounds that would have killed a lesser man. That should have killed him, the frigid, prickling torrent of Forseti’s winds enveloping him in what the entirety of Jugdral believes to be his final moments. The numerous lacerations that cover his body serve their reminder to him that the sensation had not simply been a figment of his imagination. With his part played out and completed, thousands dead or injured and several thousand live’s uprooted with lost loved ones, he no longer has a purpose in the new world, his existence now nothing more than a hindrance in unifying Thracia with those from Munster happy to believe him to have perished.

Yet he refuses to sink back and rot away. Mercenary work all he knows, what every Thracian knows in order to scrape by, Silesse had seemed the best option. The country never ravaged the same as most other countries in Jugdral, the peace usually meant easier work for him. And the tougher jobs that weaker men feared left him being the best for the job, even without Gungnir. Silesse accustomed to several of its citizenry becoming pegasus knights, settling in the country made sense with his dragon for a mount.

Still waiting on his food, Travant makes no motion to adjust himself as he hears hurried yet steady footsteps heading his direction.

“Apologies for the wait sir,” The server doesn’t bother waiting another moment before placing the plates down.

Travant eyes the food with mild disgust. Silesse the closest to Thracia in terms of a harsh climate that led to the rise of mercenary work, the necessities available to its people still make Thracia seem nothing more than a country void of anything. After the first plate is placed down, his disgust grows. The elder’s parting remark playing in his mind, the extra portions of food are nothing more than jabs at the extra bit of heft he now sports.

The server’s arm trembles; he clenches at the slightly spilled mug in his hand. He makes no sound besides a meager wince, too afraid to speak as if out of turn.

“I only ordered one item,” His entire body sags as he takes a deep breath before bothering to look at his server. “Whatever-”

Pink, rosy eyes stare at Travant. His eyes are far more narrow and pathetic than hers. His hair the exact same shade as his eyes, the color is too dull and muddy to be reasonably mistaken for anyone Travant could possibly know. Yet, the youthfulness, the unrestrained fear, the resemblance, no matter how minor and pathetic of him to even associate the two, has Travant falter and let go of the server.

The short scene over as quickly as it started, the few occupants left in the room begin to mind their own business, the few nosier, unaware onlookers quickly scared off by some slight movement from his lance. He makes himself comfortable, the stronger wood from Silesse’s more durable, resistant trees still manages to mock him creaking as he leans back into his chair. No need for waiting, Travant scarves down his meal. Cutlery scrapes against plates. Mugs clank on already dented wood. Scraps of food are left nonexistent, Travant swallowing every bit of broth that remains without a single drop escaping him.

“Tch. Ignore my rambling. Take this and leave,” Travant uses the second best motivation for silence. He tips the other a few gold Silesian coins, Travant all too used to Thracia’s currency being met with nothing more than sneering laughter.

His server hurriedly places the platter down and serves the rest with his left hand to leave as quickly as he can, but not before muttering some gratitude for saving the town.

Eating a simple necessity that few have to truly worry about, his life as nothing more than a scavenger that was never quite sure when his next meal would be left him with more brusque table manners when not caring about decorum. Yet, despite his upbringing that mirrors the whole of Thracia’s people, his current situation as nothing more than a usually over glorified — yet overqualified — bodyguard now leaves him decently well off. Fighting such as today is a rare chance for him to fully exert himself. And the much more sedentary lifestyle shows on his figure despite his attempts to cover up that aren’t solely due to Silesse’s harsh days and even harsher winters. His entire body once a display of his musculature from years of fighting, his former physique is hidden under soft, plush flab. His jutting thighs that used to be a sign of his years of prowess of being a dragon knight of Thracia are now two blubbery legs. The thick fabric of his pants well insulated, the material still hugs his portly figure. The fabric is meant to have some leeway when it comes to stretching, so his pants show no strain despite covering thighs large enough to remain crammed against one another regardless of sitting or standing. The lower portion of his body is the most impressive part of him, his cushy posterior thankfully hidden by the lower portion of his coat. His sizable belly pools onto his cramped thighs, the pudgy, flabby stomach snugly tucked away behind his shirt. No longer sporting a belt like before, Travant had gotten rid of the adornment ever since his first one had snapped off — an event that fortunately happened in the privacy of being alone. His biceps had once been an impressive feature of his figure along with the rest of his body, but now his arms are slightly larger than what they used to be with a hefty portion of flab coating and covering his musculature. With his coat still on, certainly because of a slight draft and not for any other reason, the bulky outerwear makes Travant seem even wider than he is. His chest equally as impressive as it used to be, the continued size of his chest is now only a rude reminder of his current figure. His sizable breasts are outlined by his shirt as they bulge and sag down to rest comfortably on his gut.

Reaching for the last sliver of bread that remains, he digs into the slightly coarse side made much earlier in the day. He takes one final swig of his drink to wash it all down, a scoff his only other signal to having finished his meal as he disdainfully looks at the few plates littering his table. The meal clearly enjoyed with nothing left untouched or even uneaten, Travant grumbles to himself.

A few good hours are still left in the day. But, Travant makes no motion to move to take advantage of the time for supplies or provisions, nothing no longer expected of him. So he mulls and wallows in indecision, choosing to impatiently tap his fingers while waiting for anything to occur. His mind chooses to act for him instead. The waiter clearly on his mind, his attempts to ignore the bubbling thoughts serve nothing to stop the crimson stream of thoughts. Happy to forfeit his own life, the heavy reminder of his deeds comes crashing harder than the River Thracia. Far too many for any man to possibly remember, the torrent of sins seem to love to torment him with the reminder of Chalphy’s blood, of Ethlyn’s blood.

Having never spoken to the future queen of Leonster — a future that never came to be. Travant recognizes his concern for her as nothing more than his own baseless insecurities. He had known of her actions, Chalphy’s descendant pacifistic in comparison to her husband, the now deceased woman at the very least attempting to persuade some talks of lowering or even removing Munster’s exorbitant food tariffs on Thracia. Yet he knew better than most that Munster could never easily change, that it would never change if not for his actions. If only she had not foolishly ridden off with her husband into the desert, if only she had simply surrendered rather than fighting until her last breath, until Gungnir pierced through her without a single thought besides Thracia’s prosperity, until she gasped her last few painful breaths as she still feebly held her sword at him and clung to her infant daughter. How many more had he condemned to a similar fate? Not just his very own people, countless other innocents killed for what he could only hope and believe to be the rightful path, a path he would take once more with zero hesitation. Regardless of what Jugdral chooses to think of him. Regardless of the penance he must pay.

Travant suddenly finds himself jostled to attention. His heart pounds in his ears. The deathly pale white of his knuckles slowly gain a more lively tanned hue as he unclenches his hands gripping at the edge of the table. Chest heaving, his eyes are wide; scanning the entire room, none even bother looking his way. Travant sighs to himself, his entire weary body wracked with exhaustion of his usual thoughts. Mulling to himself for a quick moment, he hails the server — unfortunately the very same one — and orders another two plates of food.He makes sure to leave another tip.

He never once bothers looking at them, simply waiting for his food to help occupy the time like most days.

[randomnameless]

Ever wonder about Disler, and Travant? Disler is that recolor boss in FE4 who babysits Corple/Sharlow/Fat shota Sigurd for his boss? Travant and the Narrator both describe Disler as his right hand man. I wonder what their relationship was like, we get very little info on Disler's personality aside from him disliking babysitting but reluctantly doing it for his boss? Or are we not supposed to think much of Disler because he's just a random without a unique portrait?

If only Disler had more importance...

quite honestly (because i’m still in chapter 7 of the run) i totally forgot about Disler and thought Aerone was his dad’s right hand man - at least it looked like so in FE5 when they have a lesson about “strategy” over Tahra’s fate.

Maybe Dean or Eda could have talked about “commander Disler”... maybe in Jugdral Echoes he will be more relevant!

at least we can be sure that Travant’s right hand man didn’t get him an illegtimate son like Arvis’ right hand (wo)man!