Armour

You sat in the stables for hours, licking your (many) chops after that scrumptious snack. Not even bones remained.

Then orks came in, goading you into the courtyard in front of the smithy just outside. You didn't like them poking you with spears, but they did get you to where you needed to be, only losing two of their number in the process.

The blacksmith, who was a Corrupted Dwarf with a long sulphur beard, looked your body over from all sides, and pondered. The problem wasn't smithing armour big enough to accommodate your bulk, although that was a challenge, but making the armour not get in the way of your ever changing body. At first he tried conventional armour, with breastplates fastened to you with leather straps, but the breastplates buckled and the leather snapped. Then he tried chain mail, crafting what was basically a massive blanket that could be wrapped around you, with holes for arms and legs and whatever else. But that too failed, for it tore itself apart whenever you stretched or contorted your body. Resilient and nearly indestructible, Adamantine chain mail would've done the trick, but there was not nearly enough time to knit mail of that size. Frustrated, the blacksmith embedded searing hot plates of steel into your skin, hoping that would be the end of it. But it wasn't the case. The plates melted the flesh surrounding them, and it oozed off in globs like mozzarella. The pain was excrutiating, but you didn't mind so much; it regrew almost instantaneously.

At the end of his rope, the Dwarf called in a Mage, which under normal circumstances a sane Dwarven blacksmith would never do, to imbue you with dark and arcane protection instead. The Mage, smug like all overconfident wizards, stood before you; disgusted at your sight, but eager to flex his magical prowess. He chanted ancient and long forgotten eldritch and antediluvian words, and gestured with his hands wildly into the air, as if to threaten the sky itself. The air crackled violently with energy, and he cast his spell at the crescendo of power.

The Dwarf burst out laughing when he saw the Mage's smug look turn to one of bewilderment. Though born of it, not even foul magic could bear your presence.

The Dwarf wasn't laughing when both he and the mage were tied together and burned on a pyre for their failures.

Your master was not pleased. He never was truly, but perticularly so here. Still, the futile endeavour wasn't all a waste of time; it did reveal a few interesting... quirks.

"A trifling inconveniance. Come beast, I have a task for you."