Cress and Shiloh were not built for this, at least not anymore.
Before Veles performed their trimming, they had fit, strong bodies that would have been capable of marching through the forest for seemingly hours and then chopping down a tree. It would have still been hard work, sure, but they were certainly capable of it. Unfortunately for them, that was a different life, one that had been cut and written out of existence, never to be remembered by anyone besides the man who changed them.
So now, the two obese men found themselves struggling to even lift the axes that had been handed to them. The badger’s heavy jowls flopped as he panted from exhaustion. The weasel’s sallow, bloated stomach sticking out from his thin frame like the pit of an avocado, bobbing with each heavy breath. They were tired, soaked in sweat, and scared for their lives. The knew the risks of the road, but they had hoped being simple musicians would have spared them the madness of this sort of thing. Being robbed is one thing, being dragged out to the middle of nowhere so a bunch of bandits could get their kicks humiliating you was another.
“Get on with it, ya wankers!” The jeers from the crowd were growing.
They looked up at their tree, the intimidating form that taunted them just the same, a task so tall it practically ensured their doom. The two of them looked at each other with a nod, and an understanding that this might be the last time they ever see each other. And so, the banjo player and the flute player found enough strength to lift their axes and begin their final performance.
The first swings were torturous for the two corpulent men. Each chop was weak, barely able to crack through the bark. Their arms were like jelly, and their legs even worse off. The weasel’s stance was pathetic, planting his feet close together and trying to swing entirely with his arms. The badger wasn’t much better, at least trying to swing his hips into it, but he was so drained of any energy that his swings had little more power to them.
Still, in those moments, a rhythm started to form. The buck had said something about the rhythm this forest had, and the two musicians found themselves starting to fall into it. Lift, swing, pull, a spark of energy started to pulse from their hands and up their arms. Each of them found the pain and exhaustion melting away as they began to lose themselves to the pace and tempo of the work.
With each swing, the fat on their arms began melting off, almost imperceptibly. Strength began joining each swing, and when Cress the badger finally started breaking into the trunk himself, he felt a wash of pride fill him. He looked around to his companion, eager to share in the joy of making progress just in time to watch the weasel make some progress on his own tree. The two beamed at each other for a moment, before the jeering of the crowd jostled them back to the present.
“C’mon, ya pansy! Ain’t ya got a man’s bone in yer body, or are ya just a little sissy?”
The crowd's laughter distracted the two for a moment before looking around at the third part of their band, struggling worse to even lift the axe than they were. The two of them looked back at each other, pleased that the crowd’s attention was off of them. But the pause in their chopping had gotten them off that comforting rhythm, so they each took their places once again, squaring their feet with their shoulders and their hips with their target. And they went right back to chopping, lift, swing, pull.
The rhythm easily took over their focus as they each continued to make progress on their respective trees. They were finding was so easy to slip into a trance, to let the axe do all the thinking for them, to focus on their task. With each swing, the axe felt lighter, as did their thoughts. A well of pride formed in each of their cores as they carved away a respectable wedge in their logs. And from that pride came a wash of changes for each of them.
Cress was too engrossed in his task to notice his fur begin to shimmer and change, black and white of his arms shifting tone into a deep chestnut brown. As it spread across his back and chest, the obese badger felt like his body was melting away in places. The chubby fat of his arms had completely faded away, and now those arms were bulking up in muscle and power. The chestnut fur spread to his hips and midsection, slimming them down from being a butterball’s physique to a stocky powerlifter’s gut and build. As the fur spread around his wide but shapely ass, he felt a pressure build in his tailbone. He turned for a moment to watch the appendage grow out, extending from his back further and further.
Then it paused, Cress realizing that something was wrong. He racked his brain trying to figure it out, before the obvious answer came. Of course something was wrong, he stopped chopping! Lift, swing, pull, look, a new step to the rhythm added itself as Cress found himself turning to look at his tail, a feat now much easier with his slimmer form. Each chop sending a clear jolt of pleasure through his system as he turns to look at his tail each time. It widened and flattened, the massive appendage draping down onto the ground, a scaly, leathery texture coating over it. He felt like he could move it pretty well, slapping it down on the ground with a THUD!
“Hu hu hu hu hu hu!” The short, goofy sounding laugh he produced was uncharacteristic of the badger he once was.
But he shrugged it off, and got back to work. Lift, swing, pull, thud. His face contorted with each laugh, looking goofier each time. His nose shortened as the brown fur spread around his face, his eyes widening from the narrow ones of a badger. And most distinctively, his teeth flattened, losing the sharpness he had as a carnivore in favor of a flat set of molars, along with a pair of buck teeth that stick out from his upper lip. Around his chin, a bushy beard grew out, giving him the look of a man of the wilderness.
His clothing had changed as well, from a light traveler’s tunic, to something hardier. His shirt became a tight vest, with a deep open V-shape, stretching over his wide shoulders and showing off his inflated pecs. His pants became a tight leather, and he knew he had no loincloth underneath. His impressive cock pressed against the fabric, leaving little to the imagination. He had become dressed much like the bandits and the stag, a sign of his impending destiny.
He looked over towards his partner, only to see that the weasel had undergone his own transformation. Now a beaver much like himself, the man was tall and lanky, with a sinewy build providing his power. Just like his physique, his beard was long and thin, as was his cock, its imprint showing through his pants. It was not unlike what he was before the trimming, now fit and agile with plenty of power, an impressive build for the 19 year old man. Creek admired his form, thinking back to his younger days, when he was a fit beaver like that. Why he had the endurance to chew down trees from sun up to sundown back then. Honestly, Stream had built a good body for himself at such a young age, but Creek knew where their metabolism and this work would take him. He’d bulk up those arms and shoulders soon enough, and then his waist and stomach would pack on the muscle to compensate.
Creek shifted his powerful legs, his cock stirring in those tight pants of his.
He was a rather eager beaver it seemed, thinking about how his brother was gonna fill out over the next few years. Looking back at the tree, his asshole quivered in need too. He was halfway through the tree, so naturally he was almost done. Once he got done, he’d get to drink with the men down at the lodge, sharing dirty jokes and tall tales and getting lost in all the ale he could handle. And when he and his younger brother got back to their room, Stream would pound his muscular ass until the sun rose. Creek chuckled to himself, sure Stream only topped for now, but he saw the way the man looked as he watched his brother get railed by the other men. It would only be a matter of time before curiosity got to him, and he asked to be Creek’s bottom.
But Creek shook his head.
The tree, all that mattered was the tree. Lift, swing, pull, thud. He started taking massive chunks out now as he chopped, and began to observe his work. A few chews here and there would send this thing toppling over, so he got on his hands and knees to do what a beaver does best. And after a few moments and one good shove, the tree began to fall, away from the crowd and onto the forest floor. The stocky beaver looked up, sun still clearly in the sky. Easy, not even a challenge.
Another WHOOMP of another tree falling caught his attention, as Stream finished up his tree chopping.
“Looks like I beat ya, bruddah!” Creek called out, Stream responding with a dismissive wave.
“I’m gettin’ closer ya granpa, and I’ll be passing ya soon!”
Creek barely had time to smirk before a crowd of men surrounded him, smelling of sweat and ale. Gods, he was in heaven. One of them handed him a congratulatory flask as he took a long sip. Whisky, woody and sharp on the throat, just how he loved it. He heard Stream coughing after his own sip, the poor boy not used to the taste of hard liquor yet. Still, it was a good hard day’s work, and he was ready to go back to the lodge with the men to celebrate.