Polyphagia is an unquenchable hunger that strikes from within the body itself—not the honest hunger of labor or growth, but a gnawing, insatiable craving that accepts no satisfaction. The afflicted person consumes prodigious quantities of food and never feels full. Their belly may stretch with the sheer volume they have taken, yet minutes later the hunger returns, driving them to eat again. In a medieval household where food is counted and budgeted, this condition becomes a burden both to the sufferer and to those obliged to feed them.
Trait
At its mildest, the trait manifests as an uncommonly hearty appetite. A person so inclined eats larger portions at meals and may ask for second helpings more often than their companions. They are often sturdy and broad-bellied, with the build of a laborer or a prosperous farmer. Others may tease them gently about their fondness for eating, but it poses no great hardship. They simply require more grain at harvest, more cheese at market, and are thought peculiar rather than afflicted.
Example: A man in a village who is known for his voracious appetite, always finishing his bowl first at communal meals and stopping by the baker’s stall for an extra loaf. His neighbors joke that he eats like a woodcutter, and while his appetite is remarkable, it has not bankrupted his household or caused him undue distress.
Impediment
When the condition deepens, the person finds themselves eating not from social habit or simple hunger, but from an urgent, almost desperate compulsion. They steal food from the common stores, gnaw at bread meant for the next day, or spend coin they cannot afford on provisions. They eat alone, driven by shame, consuming until their belly aches. They may wake in the night with the hunger upon them, creeping to the larder like a thief. Their behavior begins to puzzle and concern their household—food goes missing, provisions dwindle too quickly, and the person’s shape becomes increasingly corpulent.
Example: A youth living with his uncle, a husbandman, who has begun sneaking into the grain stores at night, filling his belly with oats and barley. By morning he is wretchedly uncomfortable, his gut distended, yet by evening the hunger drives him to do it again. His uncle has begun to suspect theft and has locked the storehouse, not realizing his own nephew is the culprit.
Debility
At the disorder threshold, the affliction becomes truly monstrous. The person eats past all physical reason—until vomiting, until sharp pains in the belly, until their body can scarcely move. They will eat rotten food, offal meant for dogs, roots dug from the earth if nothing else is at hand. They become gaunt and hollow-eyed despite constant eating, their flesh not storing properly, their body consuming itself. Families shun them, fearing curse or demonic affliction. Some believe the person possessed; others suspect sorcery. The sufferer’s entire existence becomes consumed by the hunt for food.
Physical Symptoms
The body of a polyphagic person shows the strain clearly. The belly is frequently distended, either bloated with recent consumption or slack with stretched skin. The skin may develop a waxy, unhealthy pallor. Teeth may wear from constant eating; nails become brittle. At disorder levels, the person’s flesh takes on a withered quality despite their intake—as if the body simply cannot use what is consumed.
Intrusive Thoughts
The hunger is a voice that will not quieten. Eat. More. Always more. In disorder, the thoughts fracture: Nothing will fill this. I am hollow. I will starve no matter how much I consume.
Emotional Distress
At benign levels, the person may feel only a vague embarrassment about their appetite. At impulse intensity, shame mingles with a desperate, animal urgency. In disorder, the emotional toll is catastrophic—they feel utterly alienated from their own body, disgusted by themselves, yet powerless to stop. Despair and self-loathing are constant companions.
Example: A chandler’s wife named Margery, who seemed at first merely fond of her food, has descended into a ghastly affliction. She eats the family’s stores at such a rate that her husband has begun to suspect her of some grievous sin. She hides bread beneath her bed, gnaws at lard directly from the pot, and her belly—once comfortably round—has become a grotesque, sagging protrusion. Yet she remains thin everywhere else, her cheeks hollow, her arms stick-like. The village whispers that she is cursed, and Margery herself has ceased attending church, believing herself damned.