Demon Core

Chapter 25: The Dancing Rattlesnakes and the Dead Bird (3/3)

Chapter 25: The Dancing Rattlesnakes and the Dead Bird (3/3)

~ [Barlow] ~

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

What exactly is a mans purpose in this world?

The philosophers have been arguing about this question for as far back as we can trace their profession, and even before the advent of such a defined role, the men of the world had been discussing it amongst themselves, beneath the heavenly starlight that hints toward the existence of divine makers who had crafted the lot of them. There, within the glow of campfires and the shadows of tall trees in the night, such discussions made their way round and round the circle not just once or twice but over and over for generations.

The question is passed on from one to another, and even those who are outside of such tightly knit social circles somehow find that the question manages to make its way to them nonetheless.

What exactly is a mans purpose in this world?

As far as anyone can tell, there isnt really a definitive answer. Everyone lives their own lives, bound within their own unique circumstances, and, as such, the purposes toward which a person is drawn or toward which they grow, pushed by their unique environments and circles, are different. One mans found purpose is to protect his family and nation with life and limb; another mans purpose is to do the same for his starving kin by taking the resources of another so that his own people might survive. Some men find purpose in the peace and toil of gentle labor. Other men find their peace in restless travel and the never-ending establishment of kinships with the strangers of the world, acting as a binding link of sorts that connects the many circles of society together.

It is very rare that a man is given a purpose full on out. Every man must find his own; that is the burden of manhood, and those who fail to do so become restless, for their spirit knows that they lack something undefinable, yet they fail to recognize and find what this thing could be, causing them to spiral down into a degradation of the body, mind, and soul that they likely fail to see themselves, blaming the lack of their lives on the world as a whole, while the truth is that they simply failed to find a purpose.

It isnt given to anyone. It has to be made up; its pretend. One has to fake life until they make it through.

Except for a rare circumstance the summoned heroes of the world, those great, powerful, rare souls who come in times of dire crisis in order to right the wrongs of the universe. They are beings pulled specifically into this world to stop some great evil or threat. Their purpose is very specifically designed, designated, and accepted.

There was never any question.

However, what happens when its over?

What happens to the hero when the Demon-King is gone, to the knight when the dragon has been slain, and to the beast when it has devoured everything that there is to devour?

Their purpose, while having been fulfilled, is now, through this act of conquest, eradicated.

Triumph is for such souls an act of self-mutilation, for when the work is done and the sun sets on the hour of catastrophe and a man stands there remaining with sword in hand but none against which to swing it, he will have no choice but to turn it against himself. If he does not do so immediately, literally, then he will do so metaphorically over the rest of his now irrelevant existence.

Heroes are quickly forgotten. Their names go into the same history books as the great monstrosities that theyve killed, and then the book is closed, and both of them are forgotten forever.

Their greatness, their purpose, and their entireties are but shadows that fade in the sunrise they themselves have brought.

Barlow stands there, the wind howling in his ears as the demon-beast is erased from his vision, magic pressing through it, cutting and ripping, metal cranking and churning in his ears as burning liquor slides down his throat.

The reverend looks his way. We have this under control, Mr. Barlow, says the officer. Feel free to go back inside, he remarks, turning to watch the giant demon scream and lash as it fails its chase, dying more and more by the second, its spindly legs breaking and flying off, black, thick, oozing blood spraying through the air, causing its massive, lumbering, worm-like form to careen, a great dust storm rising into the air from its disturbance. I just wanted you to see this. He folds his hands behind his back, not looking away as he stands there straight and tall. That you and your kind have been replaced.

Barlow empties the flask and then turns, walking back toward the hatch. He caps the flask off, pressing it back into his belt, and turns to look over his shoulder.

However, he doesnt really have a witty comeback.

Instead, he looks back down and then climbs back into the Procession, his fingers straddling the gun on his hip.

One hundred years ago, there was a great crisis in this world. A beast, not unlike the one that is on the world now, had risen and spread the horrific malignancy of its presence over the nations of the planet, sinking them into turmoil and fear.

One hundred years ago, he was brought here to this world by whatever powers there happened to be at the time, to save it. He was, back then, a true hero, a summoned hero He was the one who ended the great crisis of that century and, in doing so, ended his own singular claim to fame and life.

When it was done, he was forgotten.

Given the unique magics of his situation, his own power, and some other factors, age and time arent really a problem for him, physician.

When it was done and his party left him to live their own lives, when society moved on past the need for a hero, he made his living then instead through the act of selling his services as a mercenary to whoever needed him for whatever job.

It was amazing, how fast the world started eating itself as soon as the great evil was destroyed. Missions to shut down worker strikes at iron mines, high paying jobs to kidnap people who said the wrong thing to the wrong person, putting down societal rebellions that were fighting for the betterment of their standards these came pouring in countlessly.

The world itself is more than happy enough to eat its own. They dont need a Demon-King or Queen for that.

And so he found a new purpose in this work. Its not easy to say if the abandonment changed him or the roughness of the work did, but one of them did, and he became the man he is today.

And now

His hand straddles the weapon.

These things theyve come along, and theyre going to steal his purpose from him. Raw strength, potency, and a reputation are all that he has as a man to keep him moving. Work is all that he has to live for. Its all that he has.

Theres no way back to the old world.

Hes trapped here.

And so, all he has is the job.

But hes not going to have that when this is over. This trip here, this is his last one. When these weapons propagate from one nation to the next, itll be over. Every person, no matter how weak they are, will be able to defend themselves from the monsters of the world, be they of the body of beasts or of men, and people like him will, once again, become forgotten.

He cant do it a second time.

Barlow stands there, staring at the ground, his fingers running over the metal on his hips as cranking mechanisms and churning clockwork cut through the dense air, laden with the horrific screams of an otherworldly beast.

He lifts his gaze, looking down the line of carriages.

~ [Swig] ~

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

Swig works, sweat dripping down their forehead to the dusty roads below, fine sands throwing up toward their squinted eyes as they lean down between the gaps between carriages, wrapping the bandoleer of alchemical flasks around them tightly, securing the construction in place with its own clasps.

The half-elf lifts their gaze, looking to make sure the coast is clear, before picking up a series of the bandoleer, slinging them over their shoulder and running with a rifle in hand down to the next doorway in line, dropping everything to set up the next one on the next connection.

The carriages are all held together in a chain by a series of interlocking mechanisms that mimic a joint, allowing it to turn left and right together and even allowing for a slight differentiation in height between the carriages. Its a relatively simple, but ingenious construction that has made the transportation of goods extremely efficient in its test runs. But this design is still rather experimental, the same as everything else on board.

Swig leans down, the spring-loaded sliding door on the back of the carriage pressing into their side as they lay on their stomach and lean down between the open sided gap, slinging another bandoleer around the squeaking hinge and working to fasten it tightly, squinting their eyes to avoid the crumbling dust flying up toward their face as their hands work a foot above the stampede marked ground. Swig purses their lips, working in focus, as they start to clasp together the bandoleer.

Something shimmers in the sand, unusually.

The half-elf blinks, watching it for a second as they move, and then Swigs vision is disrupted, as something grabs on their shirt, yanking them around.

The hell are you doing?! yells the soldier, standing up over Swig and looking past them down at the hinge, that the belt is half looped around. Swigs eyes look at the man and then past him, toward their rifle, leaning on the crates just next to him. Following their gaze, the guard turns his head, looking at the rifle.

Flying, replies Swig, pulling back a lanky leg and kicking as hard as possible into his gut. The man wheezes, stumbling back as Swig jumps to their feet, grabbing the rifle, and aiming it forward at his chest. He grabs its barrel, pushing it up into the air, and the shot blasts through the roof of the carriage, wood splintering down over them as he, much stronger, presses Swig back, the two of them fighting over the weapon. The longarm gets stuck in the door frame, being at an angle and separating the two of them as they both yank on it.

A second later, Swig flies back, the world spinning as a fist clocks them in the face. They stumble over the gap, barely grabbing the railing and falling down to the other side as the guard pulls the rifle free with his other hand. Being a malnourished, lanky, overworked pseudo-slave bodes poorly for ones ability to stand their ground in a fight against a trained professional soldier in good health.

He aims the rifle down. Swigs legs dangling freely over the ground between the gaps offer no way to jump back up in time, their hand instinctively covering their face. A second later, theres a crack that cuts the air like thunder.

Swig flinches, scrambling, their back moving no further as they press against something and then look up, lifting their gaze to the arm hanging above their head, a smoking gun in its grasp. The half-elf looks back at the soldier, who has fallen down where he stood, the longarm jammed between the crates without the person who had been holding it.

The smells of sweat, ash, and liquor come to Swig as he lowers his hand, holstering the weapon and looking down. Whatre you doing down there? asks the man.

Swig sighs in relief, a hand on their chest. He saved the day again. Looking for something, Mr. Barlow, sir, jokes the half-elf, pulling their legs out of the gap and then rolling back onto their stomach as he steps over them to the dead man.

You always got an answer, huh? he says. Be careful, warns Barlow, picking up the rifle as Swig clasps the bandoleer lined with potion vials shut. Swig looks back up, rising to their feet as Barlow hands them the gun. You might just find whatever it is.

The half-elf gets up, grabbing hold of the rifle with their hands, while he still holds onto it, the two of them staring at one another, the roar of gunfire still filling the air from the back of the Procession, together with the groaning of the strained hinges and wood. Sweat, dirt, and blood stick to Swigs face as they stare at Barlow.

Whyre you doing this? asks Swig. Well both be killed if we get caught, Mr. Barlow.

Barlow lets go of the rifle, staring at Swig as they clutch it tightly against their chest, their double layered, blood caked shirts flapping in the wind, pulled free from the scabbing of their mutilated back. Lookin for something, replies the man.

Swig looks his way and then slowly nods once, pulling the map they stole out from their pocketless clothes and handing it to him. Think youll find it?

No, replies Barlow, dryly, before taking the map and then lighting up another cigarette. Are you ready?

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

Six shots ring out in the air. Six men, shocked by the explosion behind them, fall off of the sides of the lead carriage, clenching their guts as they land in the desert.

Barlow spins the cylinder on his weapon, holstering it before turning around and sitting down next to the coachman, the old man turning to look his way.

Real shame that the Demon-King got the caravan, says Barlow, leaning back, kicking his feet up, and lowering the brim of his hat. All that fancy technology, lost to the sand.

The coachman quietly whips the reins of the anqas to make them go faster. Whats left of the Procession, which is exactly just the front carriage, the two men, and nothing else, shoots off toward the distant horizon, in which there is no sunset and no such thing as a good man. He looks back for a moment, before lowering his gaze again, adjusting the brim of the hat anew.

But there is a man who will live now longer in a world that hasnt outgrown him.

~ [Swig] ~

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

The world spins. Swig flops to the side, the carriage finally coming to an end, broken wood and jagged splinters flying everywhere as it strikes against a rock. Through some happenstance of luck, maybe, Swig flies.

The half-elfs dazed, confused form tumbles gracelessly through the air a bird with no feathers as they come crashing down into the sands, tumbling over stones and rocks. Swigs ears are filled with roaring as they desperately pant and claw into the sand, into which their fingers sink. They crawl away, slowly looking around themselves as they try to orient themselves in the chaos.

What happened?

Swig winces, gritting their teeth and flopping down in pain, wheezing for air as they try to breathe through the crushed throat, inhaling in mouthfuls of fine, upturned desert sand. The half-elf tries to get up, managing only a few movements before screaming and falling back down, flopping into the sand and rolling around, looking at the massive splinter of wood jutting straight through their left calf.

The half-elf pants for air, trying to orient themselves to the direction of life as they crawl back away from the debris, their back pressing against a rock as they stare out at the desert.

The Procession lies everywhere. Carriages, broken wood, crates, shelving, and bodies lie everywhere in the sand, together with gnarled, twisted metal.

The vials exploded.

Why did they explode?

Mr. Barlow said they wouldnt explode until later, until they got further away, until until

Swig winces, with spit and blood leaving their mouth, as they watch something stir in the shadows. People are still alive after the crash soldiers, the reverend maybe Swigs unsure.

The rifle is still strapped to their chest, having been dragged along through the sand. Swig reaches down, pulling it up and clutching it against their torso as their raspy breathing tries to catch up with their body and panic.

Someone moves in the smoke.

Swig screams and shoots, a crack breaking the air as the shot hits the man, whom Swig cant even identify, only being able to watch his silhouette fall down into the sand from behind the growing smoke of fires.

The half-elf vomits, leaning over to the side.

Why did it explode?

Something moves.

Swig screams and shoots again, hitting another body and causing it to fall down.

Mr. Barlow said it wouldnt.

Something moves.

Gunfire breaks out in the air like the striking of a hammer against a resistant nail, screaming out over and over to overpower Swigs crying and the yelling of distant voices until theres nothing left but a hollow clicking and the quiet sobbing of the defeated person, aiming the gun at the man who comes limping out of the dust.

The reverend.

He lied.

He lied. That bastard.

Swig cries, aiming the rifle at the mans heart as he approaches; nothing happens as often as they pull the trigger, apart from a soft ticking sound like that of a dead clock. Barlow lied. He used them. It was a trick. It was all a bunch of SHIT!

Swig throws the rifle at him, missing, and then reaches down to grab the flask from their hip, hurtling it at him too.

It strikes the reverend on the chest and then falls down limply to the sand down at their own leg as he walks over it, pulling out a small pistol from his inner shirt and pointing it at Swigs head.

The world shakes, everything going black as a great quake causes him to fall over, his legs sinking into the sand as the Procession is swallowed by a shimmering lake of sand behind them, dozens of men screaming and clawing into the loose silt as they try to escape the sinkhole, out of which then, a second later, press out ten long, black, impossibly sharp legs that press into the sand on all sides of the trapdoor.

Then come ten more.

And then ten more.

And soon, there are many more, crawling and skittering out of the shimmering sand, where it had been all along, the beast with ten-thousand legs, the demon that had pursued them, having not been dead at all.

The ground sinks.

Gunfire rings out, the Reverend screaming and shooting as he crawls away, the downsloping sand pulling him and all of the others toward it, together with the wreckage. Swig throws the rifle out behind the rock their back is against, holding onto the strap and praying that the rock doesnt start moving. A hand grabs Swigs leg, the officer gripping onto their boot and pulling on Swigs hurt leg.

The half-elf screams too, or perhaps simply continues screaming, kicking him in the face over and over again, his nose breaking flat, his teeth breaking inward, until eventually his grip slips and he slides away, trying to crawl and claw against the angle and the riptide sand, but being unable to as he is swallowed by a wall of spindly legs.

Even if they had gotten free, even if this had worked what would have been the point?

In a world this terrible, this horrible, this cruel what would there have been to do anyway?

Theres no escape.

It doesnt matter what anyone does or is.

Theres no escape from the nightmare that life is.

Swig grabs the small pistol that had fallen, shooting it at the monster until it clicks empty, before throwing it as a final act of defiance as a dozen some legs begin to skitter toward them, obscuring a flock of birds that fly in the sky and obscure the starlight above them all.

Theres no such thing as freedom, and theres no such thing as escape, when the world itself is the cage.

Swiggy Bird grabs the dropped flask, arcing their arm back to throw it a second time, now at the monster slowly approaching, leg after leg.

A hand grabs Swigs wrist.

The half-elfs eyes go wide, as they turn their head, looking up at Barlow. That how you treat a gift?

Swigs lips tremble as they cry, yelling at him, unable to look at him in the face because of their rage. WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?! screams the half-elf.

Lookin for something, replies Barlow, breaking the strap of the rifle, the now useless gun dropping to the sand as two arms pick up Swig, haphazardly tossing them sideways over the single anqa he had ridden back on.

Mr. Barlow! yells Swig, looking back at him.

Barlow hits the anqa, barking a command, and the animal shoots off with Swig laid over it. Swig screams, as the anqa sprints through the desert in pursuit of the rest of the long since distant carriage, the half-elf looking as the single man stands there alone in the growing distance between them, standing before the great beast that is a hundred times his size, the wind of the desert howling in rage, the fine sands growing into a storm, his poncho blowing in the gale, his hat flying free and off into the wilderness, a single glow of orange light leaving his lips as he draws for his hip.

And there, where there was night only a second before, a new sunset arises only for a brief few seconds, together with what sounds like the chiming of a bell that marks the presence of the abilities of a true hero of the world, even an old one, both of which overpower Swigs cries as the dust swallows everything whole, as two birds, one with feathers, break off in escape, in a search for such an obscure thing as freedom.

And before the hour is over, the sun sets and the bell stops ringing.

The Northern Procession has been destroyed. The experimental weapons that could have posed a great threat to the Demon-King and to the world as a whole are taken by the sands of the desert, together with the minds that made them, prolonging the era of sword and magic by generations, if not longer still than that.

And as far as the public is concerned, there were no survivors of the event.

But who is really to say?

Its impossible to perfectly follow the strange dance that life is.