studiobondurri Chapter 8: The pressing of writhing flesh
Chapter 8: The pressing of writhing flesh
Chapter 8: The pressing of writhing flesh
~ [The Demon-King] ~
What am I? asks a voice from down below.
A countless swarm of eyes turn towards its source, looking at the wretched figure that lies down on the wet stones at his feet. Her confused, newborn eyes look up towards the Demon-King, clearly trying to examine her own changed body at the same time, but finding it impossible to release from the presence of his gaze.
Something that is where it belongs, replies the Demon-King, looking at the cook. Cartouche.
Cartouche teleports in, landing before the throne on a knee, surrounded on all sides by wailing, howling statues that have no voices.
Accommodate our newest, he orders.
The dancer nods and lowers her head, stepping away from the throne and helping the cook to her feet. I dont The confused once-dark-elf looks around herself. I dont understand, she says. Why am I here? Am I supposed to cook for you? she asks, looking towards the Demon-King and his hundreds of salivating mouths, running as open, wet gashes across his horrific form.
Cartouche helps the unsteady creature walk to the quarters built into the side of the throne-room.
No, replies Swain, watching them leave. Youre supposed to cook for you, he replies, waving them off with the back of a massive set of fingers that hardly leave the arm-rest of the throne.
~ [Gallu]{Spirit Cook} ~
- Worker Entity -
The Spirit Cook is a powerfully gifted Gallu, able to channel the essence of souls into her art of cooking in order to create exotic, rare triggerings of strange, unique sensations brought on by the charged life energies consumed.
Class: MINIONElement: DARK Type: WorkerCategory: DEMON* Rank: A Level: 72 [Cook] || [Red-Water {04}] || [Wild-Hunter] || [Lamashtu] HP: 72/72SOUL: 72/72 *A demon's stats are based on the LEVEL of the demon-king. Its affinities are based on its past life.
[Corrupted Muse]: The MUSE that this person had once possessed has been converted to DARK.
All COOK abilities will shift, adapting to the powers of creation possessed by the demon-king.
The two of them leave, vanishing around the bend, and Swain sits there, remaining bathed in nigh-total darkness, haunted by the illuminating trails of souls that fly his way.
He rests his head on his hand, his elbow on the rest, as he thinks.
He isnt too sure of what he thinks, exactly. Theyre just thoughts. Theyre thoughts of an old life, of an old person who he used to be and of all the people who were there around himself. But he can hardly remember any of it. But it cant be worth remembering, can it?
The Demon-King presides upon his throne.
If that had been the case, he wouldnt be here now, right?
He wonders if theyre watching.
Swain wonders if all of those people, those creatures, who made him what he is, if theyre watching him from the other side of life. He wonders if theyre standing there, with clenched fingers, grasping the edge of their metaphorical blankets in fear as the monster below their beds clicks and clacks and moves closer towards them step, by step, by step. Hes coming for them.
What was her name? The girl who hurt him?
He cant remember it.
Who was she?
He cant remember.
The girl, the woman, the witch that stole his heart at the stroke of midnight and left only darkness.
The Demon-King stares into the void above his head as he thinks of her.
He thinks of every detail he can remember, as he does often, but they become no clearer. In fact, the more he thinks about the specifics, the odder the image of her becomes, as he knows only bits and pieces of her.
He only knows what she smells like. Wildflowers.
He only knows what she tastes like. Sweetness.
He only knows the sensation of her warm lips on his own. Soft.
He only knows the wretched ache of the bony, gaunt hands that had torn his soul in two. Cold and hard.
And these things together do not make a coherent image. Instead, as his thoughts focus solely on these elements that he does know, it distorts the image of her in his mind, pulling it further and further away from the humanity the girl was perhaps likely to have possessed, leaving only an unnatural construct of energy in his mind His imaginary vision of her is only the twisted summation of the feelings of a young mans broken, rotting heart.
She is the perfume of lust, sprayed onto a corpse with no face. She is a sisters knife, rammed into the heart of her twin. She is the desecration of the concept of love. She, the woman, is the avatar of everything inhumane, twisted, wicked, and vile that crawls in the creeping darkness.
That is who she is. That is the only memory the Demon-King himself has of the creature with no name. A true monstrosity, hiding behind a veneer of warmth and softness.
He himself is nothing but a whimpering shadow in the malignancy that the colossus of her memory presents in his mind.
Abydos, barks Swain.
Abydos teleports in, landing before the throne and lowering himself down onto the slithering, sliding shadow that moves beneath his feet.
Yes? asks the painter.
We must expand, says Swain. The next section of the castle is yours to carve, orders the Demon-King. The painter looks up his way. Make it a masterpiece.
Abydos nods and then simply vanishes as he teleports away.
Swain grips the edge of the throne.
He can feel them coming.
Not the intruders, who are already inside the dungeon. They are as good as lost to the screaming horror of his world.
No. He can feel the mass of new bodies directing themselves towards him. Even if they are outside of his territory, he can sense them. Thousands, millions of them have turned their gazes towards the harrowing fortress of the Demon-Kings castle. Elves, humans, orcs, dwarves, fairies anything and everything, from every continent in the world, from behind every pane of glass and within the confines of every boot and shoe, every living, conscious entity has turned to look his way.
And those who are strong enough, those who are capable and willing enough, they have begun moving, marching, sailing, flying, whatever they can do to get here, to arrive before the demon-hour strikes midnight.
The fools.
Little do they know that theyre just what he needs.
More souls.
Level Up! ~ [The Demon-King] ~
You are now level {73}! Level: 73 Experience: 107 / 264500 Attribute: DARK Soul-Points: 146/146 Presence: 14.3 km Obols: 000 SOULS COLLECTED: 11,479 / 1,000,000
He cant help but wonder if humans and their ilk are truly the most naive of all living creatures?
His own foolishness as a man is what made him what he has become.
And theirs will make them what they will become.
Something other.
~ [Scholar Viseli] ~
Fairy, Male, Scholar of the Witches Sect Location: The Distant Wildlands LEVEL: 80
Troubling times, Sister, says Viseli, looking at his fellow follower of the faith a human. He adjusts the straps of his small, fairy-sized rucksack. Even with wings, it was a long journey here.
Indeed, Brother Viseli, replies the woman, nodding her head as they walk down through the corridor, made up of gnarled, hardwood trees that have bent and bowed themselves to form a corridor. Welcome to our home.
They have not been grown by a gardener to take such rare shapes. Instead, it seems as if the trees have been brought to heel by a force greater than their natural tendencies. They grow straight and press their trunks against each other, weaving their branches and boughs tightly above their heads, leaving only gaps through which moonlight can shine.
Do you think we will be involved? he asks.
It is not for me to say, Brother Viseli, replies the other member of the Witches Sect as they reach the end of the corridor. Large trunks block their way. Viseli knocks and the trees open apart a moment later, their roots pulling free and lashing away to the side like disturbed vipers rousing from a nest. The entrance opens as the two trees move apart, allowing them to enter inside. You must ask her.
Sitting there, bathing in the glow of full moonlight, is a woman, draped over a large toadstool, three times the size of a human, staring up towards the sky.
The trees close in behind them.
Viseli stares at the witch, a being of the old world. He serves them, as he has done all of his life. Witches are powerful, odd creatures that are difficult for an outsider to truly understand.
The nature of their magic makes them eccentric.
Blinking, the woman on the toadstool turns her gaze towards them, her springtide eyes shining over the fairy who has come from far, far away to seek her guidance.
I serve, says the fairy, lowering his head as her eyes fall on him.
~ [Tribe Chief Grul] ~
Goblin, Male, Fighter Location: The Goblin Caverns, hidden within the deep reaches of the South-East LEVEL: 48
It is my duty to go, says the goblin, the strongest amongst them, as he looks at the matriarch who governs their tribe.
She is a dryad, a wood-mother. All goblin tribes live in symbiosis with such a creature. They protect the forest for her, and she, in turn, guides and nurtures their tribe, given a goblins short lifespan. The dryads act as a form of living generational memory amongst the short-lived species that are goblins.
Your duty lies with your people, Grul, says the wood-mother, sitting there on a nest of brambles and thorns that do not bother her. Look around you, she says, gesturing to the caverns. Grul turns his head and looks as she instructs, his eyes wandering along the many steep, inward facing cliffs of the underground cave-system that makes up the largest home of goblin-kind in the world. Hundreds of faces watch from many alcoves. What do you see?
I see my people, replies Grul, examining their expressions carefully. They are scared of the hissing night.
Yes, Grul, replies the wood-mother. They are frightened children, and children need both their fathers and their mothers in times like this, says the dryad. I have but two arms and there are so many scared children. I need you here.
The goblin-chief looks up towards her. No, he replies. In times like this, it is my role as chief not to hide, but to fight the monsters that come for my kin.
This is not a monster you can fight, Grul, replies the dryad. This is something beyond a goblin.
The goblin chief shakes his head. My fight is not to kill the monster, he explains. It is to show my children that they do not hide from such things, he points at her. Not in the bosom of their mother and not in the shadow of their father. Goblins fight.
The dryad tilts her head, playing with a strand of long, green hair that is indistinguishable from the thorns and briers she sits nested in.
Your father died a foolish death and so will you, she explains.
Yes, says Grul, nodding to her. And I will do it with a smile, as he did. I learned the lesson he had to teach, explains the chief. I am glad it was his lesson I learned as a boy, and not yours.
Murmurs move through the cavern. Even for the chief of the clan, to disrespect the wood-mother like this is unprecedented. The wood-mother is a holy creature, loved and cherished in all goblin society.
You cherish safety and survival too much, wood-mother. Your children waste away from lack of sunlight and meat, all in your effort to keep them safe. He points behind himself. The bodies of each generation are smaller and weaker than those of the one before. We are withering.
Are you accusing me of being unfit? asks the dryad, narrowing her eyes. Of being unloving?
The goblin chief shakes his head and turns away. I am accusing you of loving too much. You are smothering us, he says, walking away. I am going to fight the demon, says the goblin. You may choose a new chief. I will not be returning, says the man, as he walks down through the caverns.
Several others wordlessly walk after him, as a group of them split off from the mass of goblins and embark on the journey in pursuit of the shadow that hangs heavy over the world.
~ [Slime] ~
Location: The Big-Green LEVEL: 03
The slime hops across the meadow, lowering itself down as it scours on the hunt.
To hide itself, the little green monster condenses its glibbery mass, compacting itself down flat as it creeps through the long-grasses of the Big-Green, the big meadow, the biggest of meadows. It is a meadow so big and so green that no other name could exist for it other than the one it has.
A vibration comes, moving through the slimes highly sensitive body.
The slime stops, sensing the movements of prey nearby.
It focuses, its cells coming together at the front of its body to form an optical unit from which it can see.
A yellow eye forms, building itself out of the rest of the slimes oozy, green mass.
Slowly, it slithers and crawls around a particularly tall frond of grass, looking at its meal to be.
A butterfly sits on a flower, flapping its cream-colored wings softly as it rests.
Perfect.
The slime pools itself together into a slowly rising, highly compacted flat bubble and then, after a tense second, releases the tension it had built in its own gelatinous body to hop forward in a violent strike!
Sundew kissed slime hurtles through the air, wet, acidic ooze shining in the dayglow as it launches towards the unsuspecting butterfly about to be consumed.
Something pops up in the world, separating the slime from its prey.
It slams against the odd, unnatural surface and glibbers down its smooth body, dripping to the soil in angry confusion.
! [Critical System Notification] ! THE ONE-HUNDRED YEAR CRISIS - THE AGE OF DEMONS The demon-king has returned once again, fully intent to destroy the world in its entirety. You must reach and defeat him before it is too late. Difficulty: IMPOSSIBLE Priority: HIGHEST Souls Remaining Until Failure: 987881 / 1,000,000 Demon-Kings Castle: 8317.2 KM west of your location
The butterfly flies away.
Raging, the bubbling, angry, hungry slime looks at the thing that has appeared. A window. It does not understand windows. It hates the window.
The angry slime inflates itself, growing larger and larger as it takes in air into its body in order to make itself look larger than it is to scare off this new, dangerous threat.
Inflated, the slime wobbles and dances threateningly.
The window vanishes.
VICTORY.
The slime deflates, letting out all the air now that the danger has left. But what a waste. The butterfly got away. This was meant to be a good hunt.
It looks around the area, its single yellow eye, the size of a pebble, floating in its goo as it tries to find a new meal.
Somehow, its vision turns towards the west and it stares towards the horizon. It feels like
Hmm
The little slime does not know what it feels, actually. It isnt exceptionally intelligent. But it feels like something is pulling it that way. Its pulling it towards the west.
Instinct, perhaps?
It narrows its one eye and then flops down into a puddle as it starts crawling that way.
It feels like there is something to eat that way. Something very, very far away. But it is something very big to eat, so it must be worth the journey, right?
It moves, wobbling and globbling and wiggling and jiggling as it crawls towards the west, towards the hunger that beckons it, towards what may be the biggest butterfly to ever exist.
At least it hopes so.
~ [Ruhr, the River-Sorceress] ~
Human-Half-Elf, Female, Sorceress Rank: SSS Location: The Demon-Kings Castle, Floor Seven LEVEL: 93
Where are we, Zac? asks Ruhr, looking out ahead of herself.
The grass squishes, soft soil compressing beneath her boot, releasing a wet, quenched squelching sound.
There were many casualties on the last floor and many more wounded. The illusion has done its damage, and those who remain are, at the very least, drained. But they threw away all of their food and so, recovery is only found by sleep, of which there is little to be had as the march continues.
The assault is a wreck.
Ruhr looks around herself.
They had been in the Demon-Kings castle a moment ago. But now, theyve entered the next floor, and it's just... a strange, open grassland.
She knows that shes underground, but she can see the blue sky if she looks up. She knows that shes trapped in a dank, rotting, hot hole beneath the surface. However, the calm air that she feels is warm and soft, and it touches her face, wicking away the sweat and grime from before with its gentle presence. She knows that shes in the heart of the Demon-Kings horrific castle, but from where she stands, she and everyone else are simply in the midst of a vast meadow, green, lush, and pleasant.
Hell, replies Zacarias, continuing to march forward. She walks on next to him, looking over her shoulder as the group continues to march. Vibrant, verdant grass crunches beneath his soiled boots. The others are still moving, but they certainly dont look happy about it.
You think this is like the last floor? she asks, looking suspiciously at the grass. Another illusion? Some mind game?
Zacarias nods. Have you noticed? he asks. There are barely any monsters, says Zacarias. Since we got here, the only real danger has either been some trick or us hurting ourselves.
Ruhr thinks for a while. Why do you think that is? she asks.
Zacarias walks on for a time, all of them, the two hundred and some who remain, march out of file and rank, simply moving forward like people wandering the desert. We brought our own, says Zacarias.
Zac says Ruhr, lowering her voice as she walks next to him. But she doesnt say anything after that, despite having something to say.
The truth is that, well the truth is that shes just not confident in this mission. The dungeon is ten floors deep. Theyre at floor seven, and theyve lost more than half of their men. They have no food and no water, and, even if its hardly been a day, this kind of work makes one thirsty and hungry. Wounds, even if healed with magic, still require sustenance to properly mend. Lost blood must be replaced. Theyre burning candlelight and the night feels like its going to last a while longer.
She hates this.
Vomit stains the corners of her mouth as she screams, power pressing out through her fingers as her spell intensifies, ripping a gash through the land that is filled with water. She doesnt have anything in particular to say with her scream. It just feels like the right thing to do.
A hole breaks down below. Down below the grass is the layer of worms, and there, down below them, she sees a gap, a break of light. ZAC! she screams.
Zacarias looks, seeing it too, and holds out his hands.
BARRIERS! calls Zacarias out into the crowd of soldiers. A few priests step forward and lift their hands.
An instant later, a rectangular, vertical wall of prismatic holy magic appears, like a solid pane of glass that has been shoved through the ground. Then two more, forming a triangular shaft that leads from the top of the grasslands all the way down through to the light below.
MOVE! yells Ruhr, waving to the pit. Go! The soldiers look down, somewhat unsure.
(Brother Nobani) has cast: [Feather Cushion]
A cloud of soft magic appears at the bottom of the pit. Ruhr grabs the first man she can reach, yanking him forward and throwing him into the hole. GO! she orders, as the man tumbles into the pit, screaming. Others, seeing him land down safely below, jump down after him. Ruhr stands there with the priests and Zacarias, as the soldiers move.
You! barks Ruhr, pointing at a massive giant of an orc. She looks at the man, holding a limp, dead body in his arms. She recognizes the corpse as the elf with the bad leg who had been at the back of the line. It looks like she didnt make it. Ruhr shakes her head. Let her go. Its over. Shes gone.
The orc with a hurt leg looks at her and then down at the dead elf that hes carrying.
Without saying anything, he sets the corpse of Sir Alencia down and then shambles into the hole after the others.
Ruhr shakes her head, grabbing Zac and jumping down the hole, together with the three priests.
As they fall, she watches through the glassy walls as thousands of wet, slimy, featureless bodies gyrate, pressing themselves against the sleek surfaces and each other. Covered in slime, mucus, water, and the gore of those theyve crushed with their mass, the bone-worms ungulate and release the stink of the pressing of never-ending flesh from themselves.
Ruhr falls down onto the cloud, glad that Zacarias in his armor doesnt land on her, as they reach the area below, the next floor of the Demon-Kings castle.
She doesnt think it can get much worse than this.
~ [Abydos] ~
Gallu, Male, Demon-Painter Location: The Demon-Kings Castle, Graveyard LEVEL: 74
Abydos stands in the graveyard, looking up towards the top of the shaft as he simply stays there, his brush in his hand and his shadow in his heart, as he waits for inspiration to strike him.
He has been tasked with creating the next section of the castle, floors eleven to twenty.
But his muse hasnt found him yet, and he refuses to deliver a piece of sub-par quality.
He will stand here and wait until it comes to him the idea.
It always does.
The painter rubs the old noose scar around his neck.
Sometimes art just needs a little time before you even begin the work.
~ [Ruhr, the River-Sorceress] ~
Human-Half-Elf, Female, Sorceress Rank: SSS Location: The Demon-Kings Castle, Floor Eight LEVEL: 94
Ruhr wipes her face on her scarf, getting rid of any leftover vomit that might hamper her credibility as a professional.
Floors one to seven have been a shitshow. She cant help but wonder what joy eight is going to bring her. The Demon-King is a real artist.
She rolls her eyes, if only for her own thoughts.
What was that? Zacarias, watching her.
Nothing, replies Ruhr, looking around the area. And, what layer of hell are we in now? asks the sorceress.
Zacarias looks around the floor. It looks like a perfectly normal stone corridor. Theres nothing wrong with it. Which, of course, after just before, isnt a promising thing to think about.
Ruhr looks above her head, watching as the magical shields fade away. The worms all press themselves together, sealing themselves in and recreating the layer of dirt above their heads.
Eight, replies Zacarias. If I remember how to count.
Ruhr nods. I never went to school, you know? she asks, looking around at the regathering soldiers. They lost a few again. So youll have to do all the numbers for me when we get rich.
And look at you now, replies Zacarias. At the top of the world.
She doesnt bother turning around, simply lifting her arm and bending her elbow to lightly thud her fist against his chestplate. Thats right, servant-boy, says Ruhr. Now which way do we go? she asks.
The room is just a long, wide, and very tall corridor that goes in two directions. It goes left and, dramatically enough, it also goes right. In the middle, against the wall, is a fountain, large and ornate, and full of trickling water.
Much the same, the room is filled with crying.
Ruhr blinks, turning her head to look at a soldier who has completely fallen apart. The man seems to have hit his limit and is holding his head, sniffling. But he isnt alone. Others have, in similar fashion, finally lost their composure. Zac. Have these people ever been in a fight? she asks. Ive seen children who were more put together than this.
Outside of a white-glove slap to the face, no, replies Zacarias. He looks at her. You have to understand that these are all ceremonial soldiers.
Mhm, replies Ruhr.
Not an ounce of conviction in them, replies Zacarias.
Ruhr groans. This is hopeless. These people shes starting to wonder if they really serve a point, apart from acting as meat-shields to get her where she needs to be.
Actually that may be true, now that she thinks about it. After all, she is the important one here.
HEY! yells a voice from the side, dragging someone away. Dont fucking drink it, idiot! he snaps, pulling his cohort away from the fountain. Do you want to die?!
Ruhr looks over towards them and then steps towards the fountain, looking at it. Its massive. It reminds her of the fountains behind the dungeon-gates in many large city plazas, and, inside of it, down at the bottom of the water, rest many coins.
She looks to the side at a priest, who stands before the fountain with folded hands in prayer.
After a moment, the man finishes and then digs into his pocket, pulling out a coin that he flips into the fountain.
A soft ripple emanates outward from the disturbance, each tiny movement of the water reminding Ruhr that she had been very specific about her orders to not touch a single god-damned thing. But nobody listens to her.
I want this to be over, says the priest, making his wish.
Then, the water changes.
Ruhr jumps, yanking the priest to the side as a silhouette emerges. Despite the impossibility of it, the water being an ankle deep at best, a large, graceful, fairy-like woman of impossible beauty emerges from the spring, her hands held at her side, golden hair running down her wet body. Gasps and confused murmurs run through the soldiers as they stare at the divine presence that is foreign to the horrors they have seen here.
Oh wanderer, good and true, says the fairy of the fountain. I have heard your wish, she says. With her left hand, she gestures down the corridor. If you take this path, you may leave the Demon-Kings castle, she instructs. Murmurs. Her other hand rises, gesturing towards her right. If you follow this path, you may find the Demon-King, if that is what you wish.
The priest yanks Ruhrs hand off of himself, rushing back towards the fountain and grasping its edge. REALLY?! he asks, his eyes going wide as he stares at the glowing spirit.
The woman in the fountain clasps her hands together before her heart, smiles a kind smile, and nods. Your wish is paid for.
The man stumbles, stuttering. T- thank you! THANK YOU! he yells, bowing his head to the fairy.
And then, without a word to the other soldiers, without anything resembling a departure, the priest shoves Ruhr out of the way and sprints towards the right, towards what is promised to be an exit from the Demon-Kings castle.
No
Ruhrs eyes go wide.
That bastard.
She cant turn back to the soldiers fast enough to watch them all ripping through their bags and possessions, handing out coins to everyone around them. Soldiers storm the fountain, tossing coins in one after the other, the water splashing and churning from the hundreds of coins that fly in, many people throwing more than one to make several wishes.
This doesnt add up at all.
YOU IDIOTS! yells Ruhr into the crowd. Do you really think the Demon-King just built a second door down here?! she screams, grabbing a man on his shoulder. He strikes her arm away, pushing her back and runs to the fountain. ZAC! she yells, looking at Zacarias, who is standing there. Theyre deserting! Stop them!
The man watches them and then shakes his head. Its too wild. We cant stop them now.
What?! Use your spell to tie them down! she orders, grabbing his chestplate to shake him.
No, replies Zacarias. That worked before because they were divided and scared, he says. The man nods his head. If we get in the way of this stampede, well be trampled.
Ruhr watches in horror as more people than she can count run off down towards the right, sprinting as fast as they can. Some in their groups, some alone all desperate to escape.
This isnt right, Zac, she says. Theres no way this is legit, hisses the river-sorceress. How were there coins in the fountain?! She yells, raising her voice to a shrill shriek. WE WERE THE FIRST ONES HERE! WHY WERE THERE ALREADY COINS IN THE FOUNTAIN?! screams Ruhr, as loud and as desperately as she can.
But nobody listens.
The water comes to a rest, as does the sound of boots, as most of them have left.
Ruhr stands there, feeling it now again that bad feeling.
She looks back at the fairy in the fountain, who, seeing as her services are no longer needed, closes her eyes and sinks back into the water with no wishes left to grant. She vanishes beneath its surface, her golden hair swimming atop it for only a moment, like fronds of entangling sea-grass and then, those too, disappear.
Ruhr stands there, looking at whats left.
Zacarias, her and maybe two or three dozen people.
Thats it.
Thats all thats left.
Everyone else they just
She looks back over her shoulder, towards the right. They all just left. Just like that. What the hell?
A hand grips her shoulder and she looks at Zacarias, who holds out a coin for her to take. FUCK YOU! she screams at him, slapping the coin out of his hands. It rolls across the stones, clattering against the wall and then coming to a rest on the floor.
Zacarias looks at Ruhr and nods as he walks past her, placing a hand on her shoulder as he heads towards the left.
Now we can be friends, he says.
Ruhr hisses through her teeth, watching him go. Asshole!
Takes one to know one, replies Zacarias, walking past a large orc with a hurt leg. He looks at the man and then nods, thumping a fist against his chestplate once as he keeps walking. The orc nods back.
Ruhr rips off her hat, biting into it so that its fabric muffles her screams, before she collects the people who are left and they all head down deeper, towards floor nine of the Demon-Kings castle.
At least theyre almost there.
Theyre so close.
~ [Abydos] ~
Gallu, Male, Demon-Painter Location: The Demon-Kings Castle, Graveyard LEVEL: 74
He stands there, legs wide and his hands held in a frame before his eyes, as he tries to capture the jubilance of life. Hes almost there. He can feel it.
His eyes stare up at the shaft of the Demon-Kings castle, leading up towards the surface. He catches the glimmers of beautiful stars in the air.
It starts with just one simple one at first. But then more falling stars come, crashing down towards the graveyard, screaming and twisting as they fall in free-fall through the air, coming down to crack their bones and skulls on the rocks and the walls. Some of them land on spiked posts, tearing them in half and leaving a ribbon of entrails in their wake. Others bash their heads against the walls, cracking them clean off of their shoulders with teeth flying through the air.
An odd hundred or so people hurtle to their deaths, having found an exit to the Demon-Kings castle.
Technically speaking.
When making a wish, one must often be very careful with ones wording.
The painter smiles as red ink surrounds him, pooling at his feet. He bends down, dipping his brush into the viscera, before he sets to work, ready now to give avatar to this beautiful sensation that he feels welling in his chest.
~ [The Demon-King] ~
~ [Dungeon] ~ The Demon-Kings Castle Current number of floors: 20 Section one - Lust (Floors 1-10)
01: {The Gate to the Underworld}
02: {The Precipice of Hope}
03: {The Call of Home}
04: {A Writhing Comfort}
05: {The Mimic Chamber}
06: {The Promise of Power}
07: {The Grasslands with Strange Names}
08: {A Wholesome Promise}
09: {The Lusting Den} <>
10: {The Pinnacle of Ecstasy}(NEW)
New Area Section two - Envy (Floors 11-20)
11: {Empty}
12: {Empty}
13: {Empty}
14: {Empty}
15: {Empty}
16: {Empty}
17: {Empty}
18: {Empty}
19: {Empty}
20: {The Graveyard}
20B: {The Demon-Kings Throne-Room} ()(DEMON-CORE)
20C: (Demon Quarters)
20D: (Washroom)
20E: (Kitchen)
Estimated difficulty: EXTREMELY DEADLY Estimated intruder level: 95 Estimated defender level: 74 Monster count: 1147 Bosses: 01 Traps: 09 Chests: 00 Dungeon territory: 14.5 km Rank: SSS
~ [Achievement Unlocked] ~ 'Its Kind of a Hobby' Unlocked By: Having at least twenty floors in your dungeon. Reward: When collecting resources, you and your workers will be able to automatically teleport these into your stockpile instead of carrying them there manually
Ah.
Excellent timing. The Demon-King looks on, pleased, as the window appears. Abydos seems to have completed his task.
Swain looks down at his poem, which he is in the middle of writing.
Hed love to look at the humans' faces right now the intruders.
Maybe he will?
He likes to imagine the contortion of shapes and features present on them as they come to realize just how far away they really are from their goal.
But then, the Demon-King releases the thought from his mind. Instead, he watches the waltz continue and then writes down his musings in the form of a poem. The smell of food is in the air.
After all, this is much more pleasing.
Humans will always be miserable, no matter what. But beauty
It is fleeting.