Demon Core

Chapter 27: Maggot Ugly

Chapter 27: Maggot Ugly

~ [Guezel Aschk] ~

Human | | Priestess Location: The Demon-Kings Castle, Floor ??? Level: 73

They walk past a few puddles, reflecting the visages of the passersby up back toward them. Strands of silk line the walls here and there.

Guezel turns her head, looking at the otherwise blank wall to her left.

Beautiful things matter more than ugly things.

Its an undeniable truth of the world. People value beautiful clothes more than ugly ones; this is why expensive brands and designers exist; its not about the robustness of their designs, its about the look of them and the social story they tell about the person wearing said pieces. People value beautiful stones more than ugly ones, this is why the concept of gemstones as a rare, luxury good exists, despite their limited usages in practical matters. People value beautiful food more than ugly, poorly plated food, even if the nutritional content is one and the same in both dishes the eyes and mouth eat together. People value beautiful art more than ugly art, this is why childrens valueless scribbles do not find themselves in the grand art galleries next to the works of the old masters, as their creations are, strictly speaking of exterior matters, bad.

And people value beautiful people more than they do ugly people.

Sure, there are many voices who would decry this statement if it were to be made in public, wildly aghast that anyone could ever insinuate such a terrible thing, that anyone could make a statement only a socially unfit, soulless monster would make. Of course everyone matters as much as anyone else. Of course they would never think that someone who is ugly is inherently less valuable than someone who is undeniably beautiful. But the truth is, they do.

We know this because beautiful people are treated more kindly, are given more chances upon failure, and are held open to more social doors and opportunities than their less attractive counterparts, and while beauty is, of course, dependent on a specific time and place within a society, the desired standards of that beauty matter deeply there within it. Even if the standards of a city to the west vary from a city to the east, a person who is beautiful within said domain of their living will have an easier, more desirable life on average than someone who isnt.

Thats just what it is.

Theres no need for anyone to play these games of pretending it isnt the case, so that they can be seen as virtuous. Everyone knows, but everyone pretends that they dont. Everyone acts like theyre so great.

But those same people still all called her ugly back in school for all of her life.

Thats what she hates the most about it all. Back then, everyone tore her apart because she looks different and now that theyre older, everyone is pretending like theyre such moral saints, even if they still look at her sideways, if they avoid facing her or being seen talking to her too much. Even if shes always somehow the person who walks in the back of a group of three, trailing after the other two, who seem more than content to talk with one another and to pretend that she simply doesnt exist.

Its always been like this.

People dont really choose to associate with her in their work freely, but if theyre assigned to be in a group with her, somehow everyone will find themselves together in one unit plus her, rather than all of them together. It doesnt matter if its three people, four people, five or any other number. Shes somehow always the odd one out.

When her bootlace comes loose and she needs to stop to tie it, nobody stops to wait for her or looks back her way, until after she sprints to catch up and they turn for a brief second, perhaps afraid theyre being rushed and then only seeing her, their bored, disinterested expressions turning away as quickly as if they had seen nothing at all. When she leaves the cathedral, after sessions of chores and prayers and everyone veers off down all possible corridors and streets, heading out in groups of two or more to their destinations, she has no choice but to quickly hustle out of there by herself on her way to her quarters alone because it kind of stings to look at everyone else every day.

In a way, one gets used to it, yes. One gets used to being an outcast and alone and, in general, worthless. But to say that one becomes numb isnt entirely correct either. Yes, there is a certain level of numbness that sets into place. But rather than this numbness being a full shut off of feelings and ache, it is rather simply a new lowest baseline of existence. Being numb in this context doesnt mean feeling nothing, it means feeling the same bad feeling for so long the emptiness that it becomes the standard.

In adult life, ugly people arent treated as viciously by their peers as they might have been when they were all young and without inhibitions, but that is not because their peers have learned to better themselves, but rather that they have learned to protect their own social images, and, so, the treatment becomes one of total, undeniable disinterest and distance rather than direct attacks, which would make them look bad within their inner and outer social circles.

Its not wrong to want to be beautiful. In essence, its the same as wanting to be healthy, strong, rich, smart or any other positive attribute. It serves to make life for the possessor of such things much, much easier, and who doesnt want an easier life?

Guezel adjusts the straps of her expensive rucksack very out of place for a priestess with a more than meager take-home pay looking ahead of herself at the others walking there, talking to one another about this and that. Her standard issue robes, tailored and custom lined with a sleek, comfortable silk liner, flow against her as she walks, her nice boots muddied striking the stones.

Shes recently gone through a phase of over-compensation, by trying to be as fashionable as possible. People dont like her face, her hair, her body just about anything that is her, really. So shes tried to take control of the things she can control. Her bones are what they are, but she can control her hygiene, what she wears, her hair on which she spends the last of her salary after clothes, the ash lining under her eyes and the off red, soft, waxy grease for her lips.

With each of these things that she became obsessed about after their discovery, she was certain that they would be the healing for her wrongness, that they would fix whatever problem she had. Maybe if she dressed nicer, people would realize that she didnt actually have such a weird body. Maybe if she took better care of her face, people wouldnt think it was so ugly. Maybe if she learned to take care of her hair properly, according to its unique needs, people wouldnt look at it like they would at a rats nest.

But the problem is that, after each and every one of these attempts, people just still wouldnt look at her to begin with.

So she just moved on to the next thing and then the next thing and, one day, she simply ran out of things to try and that was that.

Everyone laughs up ahead.

Guezel freezes up, stiffening like a board as she stands perfectly still and looks at them. Theyre laughing about her, right? Sweat pearls on her skin almost immediately, soaking the fabric of her robe even more than it already is in this furnace of a dungeon, a cold chill running up her spine.

But theyre not.

They just keep walking, talking about something that isnt her.

She hates when people laugh in public. As soon as she hears it, no matter where or when, her first thought is that its about her. Again, this hasnt actually happened in a long time, but it had happened so often when she was younger that its simply imprinted into her now. The sound of laughter, without fail, brings her dread.

Guezel looks around herself at the corridor theyre in. Its one of many of one-hundred and some. They had reached the next room of the Demon-Kings castle, only to find out that it is a labyrinth of sorts. There is a core room lined with dozens and dozens of tunnels, and its impossible to say which one is the right one, so the crusade sent several scouting parties into each tunnel. This little group here of theirs is one such thing. She wasn't chosen by these other members of the crusade, so much as they were assigned to be together by the raid leader.

Something clacks against her boot.

As if provoked by her own thoughts, the lace of her boot seems to have come loose and undone, the aglet striking against the leather. She sighs, kneeling down, not bothering to say anything because it wouldnt get her anything other than a sour look at best or vacant disinterest of people who had pretended not to hear her at worst. The priestess works for a minute in the dark, fumbling with the lace to try and tie it up right, before rising back up, shaking out the leg to see that the boot is sitting right and then looks ahead of herself, toward the emptiness.

They didnt just keep on walking, its almost like they went out of their way to walk faster. She cant even see them anymore.

Guezel lowers her head, staring at a puddle for a second, that some white strings have fallen into, before she realizes that the eyes in it are staring back at her and she breaks contact, quickly shuffling onward to try and catch up with the group.

Theres a fork in the path.

Guezel stands there at the end of the tunnel, looking at the diverging branches that break off one to the left and one to the right.

The rest of the group isnt in sight and she cant hear them either. The priestess, worried, rubs her arm and looks around the area for any markings, like scuffs on the ground, that could maybe give her a hint. However, she cant see anything. The floors are made up of meticulously lined brickwork, none of which is displaced, and there isnt any layering of disturbed dust or sand or anything of the sort.

Silently, she swears beneath her breath, a cool anxiety building in her again. She doesnt expect them to wait, but the fact that they didnt even make some kind of mark to let her know which way they went is really a new blow that she hasnt experienced yet before. They knew she was in their group and walking with them. Surely they had to notice that she wasnt there at the junction.

Should she go back?

Guezel looks back over her shoulder, down the long corridor that leads back to the chamber they started from.

But if she goes back, she might get in trouble.

She might get accused of cowardice or dereliction of duty. Sure, she could say she got separated from her group, but would anyone really believe that? Probably not. They wouldnt really care if its true. One look, and theyll be sure it is and shell be punished. These things have happened before. Shes had plenty of extra chores and duties in the cathedral hoisted onto her for things like this.

But that theyd do it in the Demon-Kings castle, where their lives are actually on the line, is far more grim than even she had expected. Its heartless. All by herself, she could actually die here.

The priestess looks back toward the two paths, closing her eyes and listening as she tries to make a choice. She has to take one of them. Going back isnt an option. Shell just quietly move through. If theres anything scary, she can always run back the way she came. At least shell have proof that she tried her best if some monster is chasing her out toward the rest of the crusade.

As sad as it is, that might be her best bet at this point.

Fumbling with her thumb, which rests trapped beneath the shoulder strap of her bag, Guezel nods and then heads left. Shes not really sure of any particular reasoning for this choice. Its just a fifty-fifty pick guided by her gut feeling.

Theres nobody here.

Guezel looks around herself, staring at the chamber shes arrived in. Its an underground cavernous space. Water crashes in the distance, coming from a small fall that runs down the wall into a large pool of unnaturally bright, blue water that shimmers as if glowing with its own light. Ruins of an ancient, white marble temple lie strewn about the area. Collapsed pillars and archways dot the space, hidden, in part, by the fine mist and softly roaring voice of the falls that never dry.

Hello? calls Guezel quietly, looking around at the chamber.

Is this the next floor of the castle?

No it doesnt seem like it. She didnt ascend or descend. Shes still on the same floor.

The wary priestess looks around the area, scanning the ruins as she walks, trying to find her group. There doesnt seem to be much of anything here, actually. There arent any people. There arent any monsters. Theres just the ruins, the water and her.

As odd as it is, given that her life is on the line, shes very thankful for this.

Guezel can only imagine what would have happened if she had actually found her party. As always in such situations, she would have gotten some snide remark about finally catching up, or that they thought she had ditched them the shamelessness of the statement never quite seeming to bother them as they make it.

The priestess climbs over a collapsed pillar, brushing the deeply green ferns that grow over it aside, as she steps toward the water, looking at it.

She cant see her reflection. The disturbance from the falls causes too many ripples and too many waves and the image is distorted and broken and, for this, shes innately grateful without being able to say or even think of any reason as to why. Its a trained, inner reactio

When one really hates oneself, one goes out of their way to avoid one's own reflection. This can be as simple as simply averting one's gaze when entering a washroom so as to not see oneself in the looking glass. It can mean never going outside on rainy days, never staring into the windows of shops upon passing for fear of seeing something too much within the glass.

The turmoil of disturbed water brings her peace.

She rises up, looking around the room and then sitting down, leaning with her back against a crumbled pillar as she stares at the water, cascading down from above.

How did she get here?

Strands of white, shiny silk are wrapped around its body, torn and cut from the jagged stone walls of the castle that it is too large to move through. Its shiny mandibles click and chitter excitedly as from its head emerge several stalk-like growths like thin mushrooms that rise into the air, pulling free from the imprisonment inside of its own body several silk cocoons that dangle freely in the air like the many broodsacks of a spider.

And inside of them are, what are undeniably, people.

Geuzels instincts are to scream and run, so she proceeds to start wanting to do exactly that. But before she can even move, a hand that smells of dyes covers her mouth, smearing her face with color, and another one presses her back into hiding, leaving the same marks of touch on her wet robe.

The Thing that Weaves stalks turn toward them as they hide back down and theres a sickly, wet, squelching as it begins to move. Its soft, supple and grubby body sliding over broken stones and rocks, sliding over debris and rubble as the mass moves toward them, squicking and icking like the sound of a fist pressing ground meat flat over and over until it loses all coherence and becomes an undefinable paste.

The stranger holds her there as a shadow moves over them, the air above their heads filled with nothing but pliant, soft, wet flesh. Her heart threatens to break her ribs with every strike it makes, as hands press against her face and body, holding her still as the maggot crawls over them, over the collapsed pillar, its sagging lower half sliding only inches over their heads, close enough to touch with a tongue with only a little exertion.

The screaming voices of her party members, the people she had lost contact with on their way down the tunnel, comes to her ears as she lays there against the man and the column, moving through the body of the giant thing, coming from the cocoons it holds on its long stalks. A slick, slimy ooze leaks down from the stone pillar theyre against as it scrapes against the maggot, its lubricating jelly that protects its soft body from its movements in the tight passages of this region glooping downward in abundance a thick, colorless mucus that runs over his shoulder and between them.

It passes by, crawling into the water, its massive body filling the pool entirely as it feels around, and then, finding nothing, crawls up the side of the fall, simply arching its massive body over the overhang and pulling the rest up with little effort.

The two of them watch as it, up on the cliff, reaches up toward the ceiling, the elongated stalks on its head pressing out further and further, stretching themselves into firm rods that reach the barrier above, pasting them with a sticky substance that then holds the people-filled cocoons in place, impossibly high up above the ground.

And now, for the first time since she got here, Guezel looks up at the ceiling, which she had failed to notice at all, given that she never looked anywhere but down.

Covering it, all around the stones, are silk cocoons the size of people, dozens, maybe hundreds, she doesnt know. Theres so little light and so much movement above from the squirming, fighting contents of the soft prisons that the ceiling itself, which ought to be stone, looks like it is, as a whole, the same supple moving body of the maggot that had birthed it.

It ripples.

Her panicked, labored breathing that still hasnt recovered quite yet from almost drowning, cant quite keep pace with her attempts to sustain her life, given that her mouth is still covered by the mans hand.

You cant touch the water, he whispers. It hears you if you do, he explains quietly into her ear, causing her to think back to the many puddles she had seen on the way.

They werent just puddles of water from a leaky dungeon.

They were alarms.

Each and every one of them a signal to the thing, to the maggot, that something is coming its way.

A hand slowly releases itself from her mouth and then from her body. You should go, he says. Its going to do a lap. It wont be back the way you came for at least another two hours.

She crawls away, the terror of dying now weighing far less in her heart than the terror of being touched, let alone so closely. Guezel quickly scrambles over the rocks, wiping her face with her dirty hands, looking down at the smears of ink on her fingers as her head buzzes, far too much air reaching her now all at once from her hyperventilations, her vision shaking as she looks away and toward the ceiling.

What the hell is this place?

I dont want to be here anymore, says Guezel, realizing something. I dont I dont she breathes, holding a hand against her heart as if to stop it from breaking free through her aching chest.

Its not so bad, he says. You get used to its quirks, explains the stranger. It has a rough exterior, but when you look past that, he says. Theres a real beauty to it.

Beauty? she mutters, not sure if shes hearing him right.

This is the most horrifying thing that shes ever seen. Even the floors until now, with all of their terrors, havent really hit her quite like this one just now. But maybe thats because this time, rather than being in the back of some defensive line, shes right in the middle of it, by herself, alone.

One gets used to being alone in life and, under normal circumstances of everyday life, thats fine. A person learns to make due and then, after a while, they even begin to love solitude.

However, the danger of this trap only becomes apparent when one is no longer in a normal circumstance.

Being alone, in the wild, can very quickly mean death in all manner of gruesome ways.

So what does one do, when one has no choice but to be alone, despite their best efforts? What does one do when one becomes desperate?

Anything.

Survival is paid for with any price.

Her breathing starts to slow itself as she, with her lizard brain hissing for her to come up with a way to not have to go back alone, to not have to be alone after what she just saw, because doing so would mean to die as far as its shrieking voice is concerned, exhales one final time in a slow, controlled breath. Im okay, says Guezel. Im Im fine, she lies, running a hand over her shoulder and looking at the thick mucus thats stuck between her fingers. Lets lets finish that sketch, okay? she asks, rising back to her feet and then standing next to the pillar.

Now, to a reasonable person in this situation, this idea of a drawing would be beyond absurd. After they both came this close to becoming prey to that monster, after they both came a breaths distance from true horror, the idea of suggesting that they finish something as inconsequential as a sketch of this forgotten, off-branch of a room, seems like evidence of a total loss of sanity.

But thats because they arent thinking with the mindset of a desperate, wounded creature.

In her mind, the drawing mattered to the stranger, so by insisting on its continuing, shes doing him a favor to repay him for saving her just now. This act is a bargaining chip, it's her offer of reciprocity that will allow her to not have to face the future and to sate the hissing voice in her head with the only solution it offers, even if it makes little sense logically.

Are you sure? he asks, as she leans against the same column as before, making sure that her footing is better this time. Thank you, says the man. I appreciate it.

Just dont I mean, yeah, says Guezel, nodding and looking at him sort of through her lowered hood. Can we go back together after this? she asks, doing her best not to hear the muffled sounds coming from far above their heads that she is now able to distinguish from the sound of the roaring water.

Sorry, says the man, sitting down where they just hid on the broken pillar as he grabs the paper from the side and returns to his work. I cant. But youll be fine. Just go straight back down the way you came.

Huh? Why not? she asks. I thought youre lost too?

I am, he replies, the sound of scratching on paper coming to her ears. But I have to go another way, explains the man.

Guezel, now meekly lifting her gaze past her lowered hood, looks at him from close for the first time at his face, which is gray and ashen, and his eyes, which are yellow and unnatural in their tinge.

He isnt human.

What are you?! she yells in surprise, her soaked rucksack pressing against the pillar as she watches him work, indifferent to her sudden surprised reaction. He sits there, his hair hanging down over the paper as he draws, finishing his strokes with ink that doesnt quite stay where it should on the page as if it were a living shadow rather than pigment.

The man holds his drawing out in front of him, tilting it and then his head as he examines it, an unnatural shadow coming from behind him and covering one of his eyes as he tilts his head, the two of them looking at the sketch, before then turning his way.

Lost, says the gallu, a demon of the Demon-Kings creation, as he rises to his feet and moves toward her. Geuzels instincts tell her to run, but she doesnt because she doesnt. Her legs just dont really listen to the voice in her head as the man approaches her standing before her and towering over her. She looks up in terror at his face, staring down her way, his yellow eyes cutting into her as he stands far too uncomfortably close, which in the context of her social understanding is anywhere near her at all, let alone a breath away, which is terrifyingly close demon or not.

He lifts his hands, and she flinches, not because of that, but because she suddenly realizes that hes been looking at her face for seconds now from this close.

What do you think? asks the demon. Her terrified eyes slowly turn, looking at the paper he holds out to her, at the drawing. Im never sure about pieces like this, he explains. I always think theyre a little I dont know He sighs. I feel like I need the edge to my work and in things like this, I feel like people just wont like it because its missing the grit, explains the artist. But then I also worry that they wont like my other pieces because maybe theyre too gritty, he says.

Depicted there is a woman, her, standing by the water in the room, this room, that theyre in. But rather than the column of stone being behind her, the column is depicted as a cocoon like those on the ceiling but this one is broken and ripped apart and from it, she emerges, radiant.

You see, the problem is that, well, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, he explains. So, what do you do when your best work isnt appreciated by the masses? asks the demon artist. The largest collection of eyes?

Guezel looks at him, deeply confused and terrified and also confused in many other ways that are hard to explain. Nobody has ever drawn her before, not like this in detail and not in a way that is flattering in any sense at all.

I I-!

A finger touches the bottom of her chin, lifting her head that has already started lowering itself again to hide her face instinctively.

You realize that it doesnt matter what they think, explains the man, shaking his head as he looks at her from close. Theyre animals. Mindless. They cant see it, explains the artist.

See see She gulps, accepting her death. See what? mumbles Guezel.

What matters most, is all that he replies with. Real beauty, says the Demon-Painter, Abydos, as he swipes a finger over the drawing in his hands, bringing it to life, the woman on the paper moving and flying around the scene, the living shadows causing the scene to dance with joyful colors that all stem from black.

And now, shes as good as dead, metaphorically pierced through the heart.

I cant go with you, says the man, pulling away, which causes her a strange mix of terror in ways she cant grasp due to her inexperience. He looks over his shoulder, back at her, the shadow that sprouts from him reaching out a hand. But I need a model, he says. If you want to come with me, asks the demon, his voice surrounded by droning water and the muffled screams of people who are on her side.

Her outstretched hand reaches out before her mind can form any other thoughts, immediately grabbing hold of the shadows grasp without so much as a moments hesitation more.

A soul isnt easily corruptible if it is molded within a solid firmament of compassion, understanding and nourishing wholeness. However, in the total absence of such things, an intrusion into the sanctity of the spirit is very easy, as it will latch on to literally any spark of that which the human soul innately craves and has been deprived of for so long, that for which it always hungers and, in those who are void of its presence, starve for.

That being the evidence and truth that such a thing as unwarranted, indiscriminate kindness is able to exist somewhere in this world. It is a beauty that surpasses anything else in the material world, and it is perhaps the most wicked weapon fielded by the Demon-King to date.

The perhaps naive priestess goes with the demon, throwing away a lifetime of training, lifestyle, and other such investments, shedding them off as if they had never really mattered at all, much as if throwing off threads of a broken cocoon.

The Demon-Kings castle claims a soul for itself to make use of in the coming skirmishes, taking it for itself not through death or resurrection, but just by asking.