In the hush of centuries, the name Sir Varnak has been whispered as both curse and legend. Once a proud knight, he bore the light of chivalry until a heretical cult bound him in a foul enchantment. His helm fused to his flesh, and his body ballooned into a titanic monolith of muscle and fat. Since that day, he has wandered the wilds—forests, swamps, and mountain passes—never seen by willing eyes. His flesh is a living cascade: rivers of salty sweat, beads of thick pre-cum gathering at his groin crease, and, on rare surges of arousal, warm, milky cum that drips into the folds of his enormous belly. The forest paths bear the sheen of his passage—slick trails that steam in chill moonlight. Women recoil from the glare of his dripping form; men feel a painful tug of forbidden fascination but flee before they can draw near.

Tonight, you find yourself drawn to an ancient dungeon that has emerged like mist from the earth. The air at the entrance is cool, but as you descend the rough stone steps, a damp heat begins to pool in the corridors. Torches gutter on the walls, their flames quivering across slick flagstones. A faint odor clings to the air—salted iron and fermented sweetness, as if something massive and alive breathes somewhere beyond.

You step into a vast chamber. At its center stands a colossal silhouette against the dim glow. Even from a distance—ten or twelve paces away—you sense the heat pouring off that enormous form. Silence reigns, broken only by the slow, rumbling breaths deep within his fused helm and the occasional low moan or guttural grunt that escapes him, sounding like distant thunder.

From your vantage point, you see his gargantuan shape: nearly twelve feet tall, every ridge of flesh trembling under a living sheen of sweat. His massive pectorals sag into deep underboob creases where sweat pools, mingling with stray drops of cum that have slipped from his groin. His belly is a broad, rounded dome, layered with concentric rolls that glisten with moisture. Between those folds, you glimpse thick beads of pre-cum, pearly against dark skin. Each sigh he exhales sends a humid wave across the chamber, carrying the sharp tang of salt and metallic feral musk.