Demon Core

Chapter 23: The Dancing Rattlesnakes and the Dead Bird (2/3)

Chapter 23: The Dancing Rattlesnakes and the Dead Bird (2/3)

~ [Barlow] ~

Human | | Mercenary Location: The Northern Procession Level: 100

The screaming winds of the world outside howl past them as if they were a blade cutting through the neck of a banshee. Radiating, orange heat presses in from all around them, entering into the windows of the procession as an unwelcome guest. The mans overthrown poncho blows past his shoulders as he stares out ahead of them at the distant openness that theyve arrived at. The tight mountain pass has come to an end. From here on out, theres nothing.

There are some rocks and some shrubs here and there, but all there is from here on out is prairie dust.

This used to be a great, grand meadow once. A flush forest full of life. However, during a prior one-hundred year crisis, it was entirely obliterated, and it never recovered. Now, all that remains is a barren desert, wholly out of place at the western edge of the heart of the nation, surrounded on all sides by forest and stone.

Metal ratchets into place, thousands of cartridges of finger sized vials full of alchemical powers rattling around in a container. Barlow turns his head, looking at the elf who has thrown a shirt over themselves, the fabric sticking to their own back because of the blood covering it, causing the material to crust and bind to their skin, staining it deeply brown and red. The half-elf hasnt said anything yet; he's just doing what he said.

Well worked fingers click the small vials into place in a leather alchemists bandoleer, the kind usually worn by battle-alchemists to store their dozens of potions before a fight.

Barlow looks at the stranger as he reaches down to his belt to pull out a cigarette.

He knows this creature. Hes seen this person a thousand times already in his life. A person who has thrown themselves down at the feet of their circumstances, someone who does everything that they can do to get by, to survive another day, someone who deludes themselves that tomorrow is going to be better if they just make it through today.

The Procession rumbles, its specially made, wide gauge axles and extra width wheels churning over. Theres a click as he opens the lantern next to him, holding the paper tube to the flame before biting down on it as he watches the half-elf work.

Sometimes this person wears the face of a man as the guardsman, moving to the front lines of an insurrection just until their next station. Sometimes its a woman who has to work the streets only for a few nights. Sometimes its a kid, who just has to wait only until their family comes back. But in the end, it doesnt matter whos wearing the face that day that he sees it.

None of them ever make it out. Hes never seen a single one do so.

The half-elf stops, looking up toward him for a moment, likely because hes staring, smoke puffing out of his lips, before returning their focus to the work.

Today, its just until my time is done.

What these people never understand is that theyre deluding themselves. Its a survival mechanism of the spirit to lie to oneself to the point of delirium when such absurd statements seem almost realistic.

Nobody gets out alive.

I was born this way, says the half-elf, not looking up from their work, their face burning red from the whiskey that they clearly arent used to drinking, but it seems to be doing a good job on the pain. The smell of the liquor leaves them; the burning cigarette almost glows more intensely from the fumes in the air.Updated from

Barlow exhales, a trail of smoke being carried away by the wind. His vacant staring at them has been misinterpreted.

He saved the half-elf from falling once. The half-elf saved the coachman with that long distance shot, thereby saving his own mission, his own money, and his own reputation.

Theyre even. One for one.

The man turns to look at the weapons lining the wall, smoke and red dust filling the room. These things

Theyre here in all shapes and sizes. There are small, personal ones like his own. There are longarms, like the kind the half-elf used, and between them are mountains of odd, experimental designs that he doesnt care much for. Not that he cares much for these things to begin with.

The cigarette moves to the other side of his mouth.

With weapons like these, men like him wont be needed anymore. Itll be the end of his work, his profession. Not that there are many others like him. Most either die or get out of the game before they get to this level. Triple S ranked mercenaries are far and few between, especially those willing to walk through very gray zones. Hes an exception for many reasons.

Normal adventurers who work their way through the ranks tend to be of a very specific personality type.

Its funny.

This job, if successful, is probably what will put him out of work.

Just this one job rings through his head, his own inner voice not cutting him any slack. Hes the man who's making his own coffin, one way or another. Either the delivery is successful and these weapons are propagated through the world, which will be his end. Or itll fail, and hell have failed his mission.

He plays with the metal on his hip before turning around to walk past the half-elf. He has something to do. The man stops, looking back over his shoulder once.

Then how are you gonna die? asks Barlow in response to what the stranger said, before pulling the sliding door open to leave, the Procession roaring as it moves at full speed.

Wind presses through the now opened door, a powerful draft moving through the entire chain of carts as it presses out of the many windows and openings, carrying only a single word his way, mingled with the violently burning tinge of cheap alcohol that comes with less hesitation than he had expected.

The door slides back shut behind him as his thick, leather boots walk down the creaking corridor, a flock of birds flying alongside the carriages on their own route of escape for a moment, before lifting up higher into the air and away from the clanging metal and spider webbed glass, covered in scars and blood.

Free.

~ [Cartouche] ~

Gallu | | Dancer Location: The Demon-Kings Castle Level: 100

The marrow inside fresh bones churns as the pile of corpses of soldiers and their mounts quivers and shakes. The meat and sinew pop as her demon-magic affects them. The Demon-King has entrusted her with this task, and shes not going to step down from the challenge. Challenge most often self afflicted but sometimes external is what forces a person to grow. A person who does not face challenges and does not face difficulties that puzzle the mind, body, and spirit will never develop further than what they are now.

The same applies to the art of dance.

The artistic pursuit isnt just the pursuit of the perfection of an act itself. A dancer may perform the same routine a thousand times over in pursuit of the physical perfection of the actual act of the dance, yes. However, this then perfected dance is just another tool of a higher level. Much the same way as a musician will master a piece, only to then learn another, only to then learn another, so, too, does the instrument of the body itself move, following the grace of unheard, ethereal notes of song in pursuit of a perfection of a higher state.

It isnt the perfection that matters.

The perfection is just a side effect, an unintended consequence.

The spirit of the artist is revealed in the very first step taken, the very first stroke of the brush, the very first, imperfect, janky note that causes people to wince and recoil because revealed within the ugly gracelessness of talentlessness is not so much the seed of beauty, rather there buried is beauty itself.

The ugly dance contains as much soul as the practiced, expert movements of a sidewinder. The shaky, weak, and out of tune keys of a piano hold within themselves the same level of soul as the masters notes. In such things, the only difference is how those on the outside perceive them.

The talented artist is perceived as better than the non-talented.

The popular musician is perceived as better than the street busker.

In a physical sense of pure skill and objective ability, this is true, yes. However, the level of soul present within these contrasting entities is one and the same. The soulfulness, the purity, the radiance of whatever a person declares to be the artistry of their soul is entirely, fully decoupled from the nature of skillful work in regards to spirituality.

Are the paintings of the worlds great ancient masters more soulful than the joyful pictures made by a child? Not better, but more soulful?

No.

They are one and the same, as both entities are simply after a very simple concept.

Freedom.

The full release of the spirit from the body through the tool of their work. This is what art tries to achieve, no matter what form or level of abstraction it takes.

Flesh bubbles, blistering and leaking, as the carriage thunders down the mountainside, together with the dozen others of the demon carnival, led by a horde of undead who stampede down the way in pursuit of their target.

Cartouche spins, her body moving to the song of rot and the magic of the gallu, bestowed upon her by the Demon-King, adding spectacle to her performance as the bodies all around her begin to take on new shapes teeth, bones, fingernails, and hair all liquefying.

~ [Swig] ~

Half-Elf | | Indentured Servant - Logistician Location: The Northern Procession Level: 20

Swig stumbles back through the corridors of the Procession, having finished the job that Mr. Barlow had for them to do. Now that thats over, theres another job that has to be done thats her normal one.

Being almost killed by the Demon-Kings monsters, violently lashed to exhaustion, and then becoming drunk are not valid excuses to miss work. Missing work is severely punished.

The half-elf braces with an arm against the wall, the ground beneath their boots shaking wildly for a variety of reasons.

A second later, Swig hangs their head out of the window, vomiting their guts out.

It turns out that being a lanky lightweight who is chronically overworked and underfed leads to a terribly low tolerance for alcohol, or whatever the hell was in that flask.

Swig finishes, before then hobbling back to the back carriages, or at least whats left of them.

The half-elfs ears twitch as they look around at the destruction that is still more than evident.

Any dismembered body parts have been discarded, likely just thrown out of the back rather than collected for anything close to a dignified burial. People like them; they dont get buried. They get dumped.

Dusty short hair covers Swigs eyes for a moment as they turn their head, looking at a blood and gore soaked corner that is absolutely torn to shreds. The burlap sacks and crates there, full of wet fruit and caking flour, are covered in blood and shit from an evisceration.

Swig looks down, bending over to pick up something from the ground thats still there.

An old fruit knife. Its short blade is covered in the black blood of a monster.

Good for you, Four-Four, mutters Swig quietly, looking around the area where the old man had been when she last saw him.

The back of the carriages is open, having been ripped apart, with the world behind it clearly visible though the sight offers nothing of value. All thats behind them is the same thats all around them in all directions on the compass dust. The only difference is the black encroachment, coming up on them faster and faster, as if it were their own shadow, trying to catch up after having been left behind.

Who knows? Maybe it is.

Swig turns to get to their shift, their lanky arm reaching up to the hatch above to start clambering onto the roof to make sure the cargo there is still secure, their eyes looking at a pair of dice that still lay on top of a crate down here that was used as a table for a game of chance that they had decided to skip.

Snake eyes.

Swig climbs to the roof.

~ [Barlow] ~

Human | | Mercenary Location: The Northern Procession Level: 100

And the bird opens an eye after all, replies Barlow, holding the first cigarette in his mouth to light it before passing it on to Swig and then starting a second one for himself.

Swig looks down at the burning thing in their hands. As an indentured servant, theyre not allowed to hold weapons, drink, smoke, or partake in all varieties of luxury items that are meant for real people, as the rules say.

The half-elf looks at it, watching it smolder by itself, before looking at him and watching how he does it. Swig copies the motions, drawing in too much at first and then coughing, breathing out an uncoordinated exhaust of smoke, and wincing. What do you want me to do? they ask, looking at the man, who turns his gaze away from the ever encroaching darkness.

From the distance behind them, two pinpricks of orange light trail off into the night.

It is many hours later, and the night has come.

The moon hangs high in the sky, its white, cool blue glow poisoned by the flickering magic above their heads.

Swig kneels down on the floor of the restricted room, scrubbing it clean with a rag as boots march down the corridor from one side. The door opens, and a dozen soldiers file in from the front carriage, each of them grabbing a rifle from the racks, before then marching down through towards the back.

Something bumps into her.

Swig looks up. Apologies, says the half-elf, crawling to the side and out of the way as another guardsman files in, grunting as he grabs a rifle and heads after the others. The door toward the front of the Procession slowly swings back closed.

The half-elf crawls along, cleaning up quietly and watching, out of the corner of her eyes, as they all leave. With her leg behind her, she quietly pushes a used rag into the gap between the frame and the door.

I trust you wont touch anything tonight, says a voice from the side. Swig turns their gaze, looking at the head researcher of the project, and then shakes their head quietly. Good. Youre suited for this work, but I will replace you if I need to.

I understand, replies Swig, returning to the floor scrubbing. Thank you.

The man nods. Big test tonight. Doesnt get bigger than this. Get ready for a long shift when Im back from the show.

Yes, sir, replies Swig, not saying anything else as the man gets up, taking several journals with him, and walks out the door towards the back.

The half-elf works quietly, not breaking the pattern, looking only once out of the corner of their eyes towards the softly ajar door that leads to the very front of the Procession.

~ [Barlow] ~

Human | | Mercenary Location: The Northern Procession Level: 100

The soldiers line up neatly on the roof in rows of three, kneeling down to make an orderly formation to allow them all to fire. The reverend stands there, his hands behind his back. On the sides of the Procession are the several dozen front men, who have moved back a little.

Mr. Barlow. Im pleased to finally meet you outdoors rather than inside, says the man, looking his way. It makes the smell more tolerable.

Thats alright, Reverend, says Barlow, not looking at him and instead focusing on the distance. Your perfume is pretty strong, he remarks, then turning around and clapping him on the back. Not for me.

The reverend clears his throat as Barlow walks off.

Mr. Barlow. There is work to do. I trust youll be staying?

Barlow turns toward him, reaching down and freeing himself, before starting to urinate off of the side of the Procession. Gotta take a leak, says the man matter of factly, the reverend making a repulsed face and looking away. Almost thought you wanted to watch, Reverend. Barlow watches out of the side of his eye as the other men and the soldiers look back toward the shadows and then quietly tosses the key ring he just stole down into the hatch next to himself.

A second later, he shakes himself dry, letting the wind do a little work too, and then returns to the back.

So. Ever fight before? he asks, looking at the Reverend.

The man doesnt have a chance to reply before the night is cut short by the screams of ten-thousand wailing dead. They turn back to look as the vague shadows of the distant horizon that have, until now, contained only faint nightmares and imaginations, come into full formation. The ground shaking, the orange light above their heads flickering wildly as the magic is overpowered by an approaching presence, until the heating spell simply dies out entirely.

Lights, orders the Reverend.

The men behind him aim their rifles to the sky, shooting a barrage of slowly falling, illuminating magic out into the night behind them, the crashing fake stars painting the monstrosity chasing them with full glow.

Men scream and fire without order.

~ [Swig] ~

Half-Elf | | Indentured Servant - Logistician Location: The Northern Procession Level: 20

Swig quietly scrambles over the floor, looking up at the hatch above, which is aglow with the light of violent magic and a thousand cracks of thunder. Out of the sides of the windows, the half-elf can see the riders shooting into the distance behind them.

Ignoring that, the half-elf fumbles around in the dark, feeling over the wood for the touch of metal. A clinking gets Swigs attention, and they pick up the stolen key-ring, hiding it in their trousers as they run through the Procession, towards the Reverends office.

Hey, Swig! calls a voice from the side. Swig stops, quickly turning to look. Whats going on outside? asks one of the workers.

Demon-King, replies Swig, before running on ahead to the office, sparing little mind to the stained spot on the wood outside of the door.

The air is clear, and the half-elf pulls out the key-ring, fumbling with it and the lock to try and find the right one, before managing and barging inside the small office. Rushing to the desk, Swig pulls on the drawer.

Its locked.

Cursing, the half-elf pulls over the key-ring again, looking for a small key for the drawer, and manages to find it.

The map.

The half-elf pulls it out, spreading it wide open on the desk, and reads it for a moment, following the landmarks with a finger in the dark room to try and figure out where a good spot would be.

There.

Thats not far from here now, though. Theyll have to hurry.

Swig folds the map together, tucking it away, and then runs back out of the office, heading toward the front, where they stashed the huge cache of vials in bandoleers that Mr. Barlow had them work on earlier.

Hey! calls a voice from behind. Swig freezes, turning to look at the worker from a second ago. Swig? What the hell are you doing? he asks. What do you got there? asks the man, reaching to take the map.

Swig acts before thinking about it any deeper than the level of immediate instinct, and the man falls over, clenching his gut and letting out a muffled, throaty noise as he falls back and looks at the old fruit knife stuck in his belly.

For a moment, Swig looks back, but then runs on and away, doing what Mr. Barlow said to do.

~ [Barlow] ~

Human | | Mercenary Location: The Northern Procession Level: 100

Gunshots fill the air, cutting through it like the lashing of countless whips, as the impact of their shots strikes against flesh, as there is nothing else to hit not the sky, not the dirt behind them stampedes a raging colossus. A sharp face, beak like, formed from the broken skulls of the endless dead, cuts through the air. Its mouth is open, filled with suspended, soft strands of fine, black hair instead of teeth. Its long, tubular body winds along the sands like a snake on the hunt, displacing entire dunes with each movement of its horrendous mass. Stuck wedged between its many segments are the carriages of the Demon-Kings carnival, which have become a part of the meat, moving with it like stiff joints, surrounded on both sides by pulsating flesh that is propelled forward by ten-thousand small, sharp feet that fail to hold the weight above them upright as they sink into the sand each the size of a giant man causing the creature to wobble just as much as it sways, giving it the illusion of being a piece of meat held on a string, being dangling toward them.

Undead riders mounted on rotting beasts charge ahead of it; just as many of them are trampled by the monstrosity itself as are shot by the gunmen atop the Procession, shooting through the night.

Told you we should have turned off! barks Barlow at the Reverend, neither of them having drawn their weapons as the range is too great for these smaller sidearms.

The reverend looks his way, his sense of superiority evident given his smug smile.

I guess you really are all show, Mr. Barlow, replies the man. A tough act, but when it comes down to it, theres nothing of substance there. The reverend sharply whistles, sticking his fingers into his mouth. Not anymore.

Barlow narrows his eyes.

The sliding door at the back of the last carriage opens.

You see, Mr. Barlow, says the Reverend, crossing his arms behind his back again as gunfire whizzes past the two of their heads towards the demon-beast. We live in a new world now, explains the officer, looking his way. Its a world that people like the man you are now ought to be terrified of, he states, narrowing his eyes. A world that the Demon-King ought to be terrified of, Mr. Barlow. He smiles. But that isnt your real name, is it?

He stomps down twice onto the ceiling above the soldier below, inside the carriage.

Theres a sound of cranking gears and winding mechanisms as somebody turns a handle, moving a device into action. A slow progression of clockwork fills the air.

You see. I do my research. Im a professional, Mr. Barlow, explains the Reverend. Youre a long way from those glory days now. He shakes his head. But Ill tell you myself, here and now, says the man, staring back at the monstrosity hounding them and coming closer and closer by the minute. In the ear of God, from me to you, one man of station to another its over. He shakes his head. The age of heroes. The age of crises. Were done. Barlows fingers twitch. Do it.

Yes, sir, replies a voice, giving an order to the person below.

And then, a second later, the cranking mechanisms come into play, and hes sure that, for a second, the lights above have been reactivated, given how bright it becomes all of a sudden. But instead, the new light comes not from this old source but from another hundred or so sources that materialize like fairy lights. Projectiles launch through the air, fragmenting and ripping apart the monster as if it were nothing. Hundreds of shots are fired off in the span of seconds by a man with a crank-gun, mounted below inside of the carriage, the roar of which overpowers anything hes ever heard before dragon, demon, or crisis.

I hear summoned-heroes fall far after their missions end, and the gods leave them as they found them, says the Reverend. But I never suspected it was this bad. I pity you, Mr. Barlow.

You dont know what youre talking about, replies Barlow, watching as the greatest creation of evil that he has ever seen is broken apart and butchered by volleys of magic. His shaking fingers graze the metal on his hip, twitching as they touch it, before wandering to the flask next to it.

~ [The Demon-King] ~

He watches Cartouche move, gracing the night with her presence as the magic of the poem combines with her attribution, having given form to the new terror that has only just begun.

~ A Thing that Pursues ~

- Summoned Entity -

It cant be escaped. It cant be fought. It cant be hidden from.

It is the poison that eats at the soul.

The bane of the prideful, the Thing that Pursues isnt only a monster made of flesh and bones; existing also on a spiritual layer below that is connected to peoples hearts. It is the monster that hunts those it has already caught, that stalks those it has already found, and eats those who have already been consumed by its influence. It is the obsession that haunts a persons head, living in it, gnawing away at them until, one day, they are willing to give themselves to it freely.

And when they do, it will never let them go just as it never has before either. They were always its.

However it will then be in body, as it has always been in spirit.

Class: MONSTERElement: DARK Type: NightmareCategory: TERROR* Rank: SSS Level: 80 *Terror is a classification term used for all monster-types that do not fall into traditional monster categories, such as UNDEAD, GOLEM, GHOST, etc. Terrors tend to have unique make-ups and behavior patterns and lean towards hyper-violent tendencies.