Demon Core

The Pursuer

Of all things of men, and beast, and foul,

Stray few things that could still cause a scowl,

To form on the faces of those souls - now marred,

Who see not life's graces, past their skin, now hard,

The men of old ways, of strength and cruel paths,

Formed in the strongest of days in which nurturing had lacked,

Yet these ruthless monsters that they have become,

Fear not but one thing,

- The Pursuer, among,

For these men fear not death, as the two are familiar in pace,

But what all these men fear is the thrill of the chase,

When they are not the ones with prey in their eyes,

But instead are themselves on the run from demise,

Hard men are strong, they fight to the last breath,

Yet they are winded too quickly,

By the thing on their left,

Their strength is their weakness, their stubbornness — their fault,

As men who had never run, can never outrun the haunt.

~ [Barlow] ~

Human, ♂, Mercenary Location: The Northern Procession Level: 100

“Fasten it down!” yells a squirrely voice, running past him.

Metal screeches. Stones and dirt flying through the air as hundreds of wheels violently rattle, a single file procession of carriages hurtling down the winding mountain road in a tight, gapless formation of dozens of long, strapped-together carts, pulled by a full flock of two dozens anqas running in a stampede. The sky is filled with unusually vivid light and heat, a great, cloaking barrier of magically altered air staying above the chain of carriages, keeping the cargo and the passengers safe and dry from the rain above that never ends, illuminating the landscape all around them with a dusty, orange glow.

Unfortunately, the eggheads over-tuned it a little, and now it’s like they’re trapped in an oven that follows them around. The heat has been diverted somewhat after a few quick alterations on the fly, but this just resulted in the majority of the heat now being pushed to the sides of the carriages rather than directly onto them from above. So it’s essentially still just as hot here for him and everyone else, but with the added bonus that the air and the ground around them literally burn, turning into a dry, crumbling dust as all of the moisture is sucked away. It’s like they’re moving through the desert.

That’s okay, though. The desert is where he’s from.

“Hold it! Hold it steady!” yells the voice again from next to him, having run back again. The mechanics of this operation are a bit wacky, but that’s not his problem. He’s just being paid to keep the cargo safe.

Sweat drips down Barlow’s face, the droplets navigating their way through the thick, black stubble adorning it. The man, leisurely sitting atop the carriages on a stack of strapped on supply crates, his feet kicked up, his wide-brimmed hat blowing in the hot winds as they ride towards the north, lets out a slow puff of air that escapes past the downward angled brim of his cattleman. A trail of woody smoke shoots past him, carried into the distance by the rushing, hot winds — thick vapors from the burning cylinder in his mouth, full of dried herbs from where he was born and raised.

A bell rings loudly from the front carriage, the man sitting on the coach sounding an alarm. “CURVE!” cries a voice along the Procession, before then being repeated by another man in a window, who yells the word to the next man, and so it’s carried from front to back just in time as the carriages, moving at a terrifying speed, come to a violent bend on the mountain pass, dry sands and crumbled greenery shooting up into the air in a dust cloud as the entire procession takes a tight mountain turn with such speed that half of the chain loses its contact to the ground with all four wheels of each carriages, the middle segments riding on two wheels for a second.

Someone yells in terror next to him.

Barlow reaches out, slowly grabbing hold of some fabric for a moment, never bothering to get up or move as his body sways.

A second later, the construct lets out a loud crashing sound as it returns to the road, having never stopped for a second, several carriages whipping dangerously close towards free fall over the unguarded edge of the mountain way.

He lets go of what he had grabbed a hold of as someone flops down at his feet, having almost flown off to their death. As the work here is very dynamic, nobody is secured. Dozens of people are just running freely around the top of these carriages or moving through them. They’re a special design, cut open in the front and back of each unit to allow a long tunnel to exist between them.

Hundreds of mounted soldiers ride behind and ahead of this wild construction. All of this is to protect some obscure, special cargo that is needed to reinforce the capital city against the Demon-King. The soldiers are just an added bonus.

But that’s none of his business. He’s just here for the job.

“T- thank you,” says a very relieved voice. There’s a slight rattling of metal.

Barlow looks up a few inches, lifting the brim of his hat to look at the pale, sweaty face of what may be the most androgynous, soft person he’s ever seen. He thinks that they look like a lake fish and an elf had a kid. The stranger looks up at him, their short, sharply cut hair matted to their soaked forehead, dry dust blowing past them as they move, billowing the white and blue striped collar of their weathered button up shirt past their suspenders. Around their wrists are a set of dark, ironclad bracelets, the metal stamped with the insignia of the military’s logistics branch as a title of ownership — of the person, not the metal. They’re an indentured servant, forced into employment by the state with the alternative being consequences, the nature of which are of course undesirable. Military prisoners, political dissidents, criminals, and sometimes even just people who were in the wrong place at the wrong time get moved into this kind of work during ‘times of need’, as they are called by the laws allowing this sort of thing.

Although, there have never been any times that haven’t been deemed as ‘of need’ by the powers that be. Funny how that works.

The bracelets are currently not fastened to anything, so the person can do their work. But outside of these times, they have the purpose of being bound to chains for transport or storage. They’re apparently with logistics, the wackjobs responsible for this entire death-trap.

Barlow blows out a mouthful of smoke at them before lowering his hat and biting down on the cigarette as he talks. “Die out of my sight if you’re gonna,” says the man, the taste of ash filling his mouth.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Barlow, sir,” they say in an accent from the deep country, getting back up to their feet.

Everyone on this operation knows who he is, which he isn’t actually keen about. He’s a freelancer, a specialist, if you will, and usually the nature of his ‘security’ work is simple. He gets paid. He goes in and out. The work gets done. Nobody talks to him, and he doesn’t talk to anybody else either. But his reputation got ahead of him, and now he’s working for some bigwigs in the noble families. He usually doesn’t care for whom he works, as long as they pay. However, because of this and the formality of the operation, he’s been presented to everyone as a key figure here. “I SAID STRAP THAT DOWN!” yells the person, rising to their feet and running off down the carriage chain.

Barlow leans back, folding his hands on his stomach, the leather on his waist creaking amidst the wood and metal carnage of the Procession. He looks over his shoulder, staring at the logistician from behind for a moment. Quietly grunting, the crusty, dusted man shakes his head, grabbing a flask from his hip and taking a swish of it, the burning liquor mixing with the smoke in his throat as he lowers his head again, as they ride, the bell signaling another violent curve to come as they veer towards the west.

~ [Swig] ~

Half-Elf, ⚥, Indentured Servant {Logistician} Location: The Northern Procession Level: 20

It’s a few hours later.

Swig’s hair blows wildly in the winds as they climb down the ladder, the soles of their boots slapping the metal rungs as they spare one last glance out of the hatch, towards where the distant sunset ought to be, the sight of freedom. The inside of the Procession is just as loud as the outside, really. The only difference is that you don’t have the wind in your ears down here. However, in exchange, you have the road noise just down below your feet.

They walk through the Procession, the inside of which is a tightly packed wooden hallway with many moving segments. The walls are tightly packed with shelves, full of crates of weapons, resources, and all manner of alchemical substances. There are small cupboards on either side, which are meant to be ‘rooms’ of sorts, technically to store even more boxes. But they’ve made themselves at home here. It’s a long job, and the Procession has been moving for at least a week now from the distant south at least.

“Swiggy-bird!” calls a voice from the side, whistling sharply. Swig turns her head, lifting a hand just in time to catch an apple thrown her way from one of the old timers. “Heard you tried to leave the nest today,” laughs the old man, who is in charge of making food for them. He’s in officially for a total of eight years.

This is his fourteenth year now.

The bracelets on his wrists, sitting beneath some fabric padding a lot of them wear to stop them from rubbing against their skin, jangle.

Swig turns as they walk, never stopping as they point at him. “You know me, Four-Four. I’m gonna fly away any day now, you know,” replies the half-elf, completing their circle to return, facing back ahead as they walk through the corridor. The old man laughs, his voice vanishing into the churning of the wheels as Swig squeezes through the tight passages, biting into the apple. It’s kind of old, so the skin is a little wrinkly and the inside is a little grainy, but food is always something to be happy about. They aren’t starved, as their owners realize they need enough nutrition to stay productive. However, there’s a careful science to it. They get just enough to survive in their work, but never enough that they’d gain enough weight to survive without any food for a long time. It keeps them in line and from getting ideas. On the plus side, the meagerness of Swig’s body combined with their lanky features lets them move through these places pretty easily.

“Hey, Swig,” clicks another member of the crew from the side. “We’re setting up for some dice. You in?” she asks, shaking her hand.

Swig grabs hold of a bar between carriages, the doorway of which is blocked by a large crate that had no better place to be put, and pulls themselves up and over it into the next carriage. “Sorry Buckle,” says Swig, hanging halfway upside down and shaking their head, the strands of their now dried hair hanging low. “I got a long one today. Need those hours.”

“We’ll be thinking of you!” calls the voice after Swig, as the half-elf vanishes into the next carriage.

It’s a weird situation, socially. Honestly, there’s nobody here that doesn’t get along with anybody else. You’d think that there is always going to be this group and that group in places like this, but somehow fortune has worked out in their favor. They’re all laborers at the end of the day, people just trying to get by. But they’re not suffering to death every day, despite their being forced into this situation. This has all led the entire group of them to just sort of… quietly co-exist. Everyone here is just doing their time and doesn’t want any more than that. The years go by easier if there isn’t any weird shit going on.

Swig moves through a few more, stopping at a half-drawn curtain as someone hisses on the other side.

“You good?” asks the half-elf, peeling back the curtain. “Ah, hell. Cheeky, what in damnation happened to you?” Swig steps inside, pulling the curtain fully closed, and looks down at the old woman, sitting with her back to the ‘door’, her shirt off an old, inflexible arm, holding her arm back behind herself to try and dab some fresh marks with a rag.

Swig takes it from her, kneeling down and dabbing the damp cloth against the red, straight bulges criss-crossing across the weak skin that doesn’t have much fat left beneath it. Cheeky’s an old woman. These are lash marks. She’s been caned. It’s one of the more common punishments for them if they make a mistake or disobey. She’s been here for twenty years now, even if she only had ten worth of time.

“I messed up in the manifest,” says the woman, hissing.

“Hold still,” says Swig. “I got it. Here, have the rest.” Swig reaches around, giving her the other half of her apple.

“Bless you, child,” says Cheeky, looking back ahead. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be. I missed a line on the manifest,” she sighs.

Swig tsks, moistening the cloth by spitting on it, and then dabbing it back against the wounds, trying to wipe the splinters out of her heavily scarred skin. Her back has so many lines and grooves that, from a distance, you’d think she was a reptile. Over two decades, a lot of punishments have taken their toll. The old woman hisses but sits still. “They sticked you for that?” asks Swig. “That’s harsh.”

“The supervisor is on edge,” says the woman, shaking her head and then biting into the apple.

“…Still…”

“Hush,” she’s reprimanded. “Keep your head down and be quiet,” scolds Cheeky.

Swig purses her lips and nods, continuing their work.

They can complain about it as much as they want, but complaining is a punishable offense if heard, and right now, punishments are at an all time high, given the stakes.

Swig looks over the frail woman’s shoulders at the bracelets that dangle off of her wrists. On some days, the metal is so heavy that she can’t even lift her old arms anymore. So she was relegated to paperwork.

“You should go,” says Cheeky.

“I always have a minute for you, Cheeks,” replies Swig, working on the next spot and pulling out a few pieces of wood from her back.

It’s true. Swig does have a minute. Swig has two at least, in fact. In reality, they probably have more than that — hundreds, thousands more.

There is a kink in the system.

Yes, Cheeky ‘only’ has to do ten years' time for whatever happened in her past. However, there is a catch to the way this deal works.

Only work hours count.

The time spent sleeping in prisoner quarters, the time spent shackled up when there is no work at all, which can be months in the dry season, the time spent taking their forced lunch breaks that often have far less food than allotted time, the time spent traveling — all of these things don’t count towards their sentence. So to work off ten years of sentenced time, that’s ten years of work hours and nothing else.

These ‘ten years’ in reality mean a number far, far higher than that. That’s not including the fact that they’re not obligated to even get work hours to begin with. If a supervisor finds one of them unlikable for whatever reason whatsoever, well, they might just not happen to have any work anymore for that particular person — ever — and so, no hours are ever tallied away.

There are some people who get out now and then, but by the time they make it, they are so old and broken that there isn’t much life left for them anyway.

But nobody outside of this system cares about all of this, and so the military and the government are quite comfortable using it, and the common, everyday people of the world are indifferent to its existence at all. Even if any outliers do raise an eyebrow or two, the mild sentences presented to the public via written records of a few odd years to serve here or there, which aren’t different from those handed out by normal public courts, placate most voices, and at the end of the day, they’re all still in irons. Normal prisoners go to normal prisons and programs, and ten years are ten years, maybe less with good behavior.

Here, for them, ten years are a lifetime.

The system works fully as intended. They’re all people who are wanted to disappear, by some power or another and have been made to do so not by outright killing them, but by just pressing them dry like a piece of juiced fruit and then discarding the peel that remains at the end.

“You’re a sweetie, Swiggy-bird,” replies the woman. “It’s a shame that you don’t pray.”

Swig wipes their forehead dry as best as can be done, before returning to the work. “Not sure how that will help me, Cheeky,” says the half-elf.

“The gods will listen to you if you do,” explains the old woman, as Swig pulls the splinters out of her raw back.

Swig shakes their head. “You know I love you, Cheeks,” says Swig. “But if prayer really worked, then why are you here?”

The old woman looks back over her shoulder. “If it didn’t, then why are you here with me now?” She laughs, shaking her head. “Bless your confused heart, child.”

Swig purses their lips, smiling with a nod as they finish the work. Everyone here finds their own way to cope. Four-Four found joy in work. Others find it in gambling. Cheeks found religion. And Swig? Swig found it a strange delirium born of the nickname given to them by the others — Swiggy-Bird.

None of them use their real names here, although at this point, these are their real names. They may even be more real than the names they had before.

Birds fly away, and so that’s what Swig thinks about whenever there isn’t any work. It doesn’t really make sense for anyone who lives a normal life, but in conditions like these, the mind becomes… strange. It finds ways to adapt and cope that any normal person would think absurd.

Swig closes the curtain and returns back to the corridor. It’s hot in here, like an oven. However, the sorcerers and magical engineers have been given strict orders to ensure stable climatic conditions for the cargo, and they’ve certainly managed to do that in some fashion.

Swig’s forearm runs over their sweaty brow as they enter into the next carriage. Guards stand at the door of the next room. They’re not in irons. They’re with the military and are here to guard the main cargo here, which is the real reason they’re moving towards the north.

A bell rings.

The half-elf braces themselves with an arm against a wall as the Procession turns.

“I’m here for my shift,” says Swig, holding an arm out as the carriages land back on their wheels.

One of the guards looks at a list on the wall and then grabs Swig’s wrist without saying anything, examining the stamped mark to make sure it’s the correct one. The man nods, wiping his hand off on his leg, before pulling out a heavy key-ring and opening the door.

— Vapors release from the room, together with the smell of metal and smoke.

Swig takes a deep breath, looking out of the window of the carriage for a second at the illusion of an endless sunset beyond it before exhaling and stepping into the room.

This job is a big one.

Swig was promised two years commuted off of their sentence if they pull this off. That’s enough to get them out of here before they turn thirty, assuming they get the same hours in the future after this and they don’t die.

Thirty is good. Swig can live with thirty. There’s still so much life left to live, then. There will still be so many things they can do after that. All of their dreams and hopes are still on the table, not like some of the others here who have much longer than that left.

“Flying away,” mutters the half-elf quietly, as they set to work.

— Eventually.

~ [Barlow] ~

Human, ♂, Mercenary Location: The Northern Procession Level: 100

It is much later.

Magical technology has come very far.

There is a ratcheting of metal as a grooved cylinder spins in his hands. The man is playing with the latest toy he’s been given. It’s not uncommon for these high profile jobs, that the customer outfits him with obscure mechanisms and gear. Most often, he has to give it back in the end. Other times, they try to kill him after the job is done to keep his mouth shut.

But this has happened so often that he’d be more surprised if a customer didn’t try to have him murdered at the end of a job than if they just paid him and let it be good. It’s not like he’d say anything anyway; he’s a professional. However, that’s just not how this world works.

Barlow lifts the weapon, an experimental version of the large cannons the nation has been fielding on the coastlines for naval defense on strong leylines. They’re able to collect ambient magic from the world’s currents of it and condense it down into a focused point of energy, which is absolutely devastating for anything like a boat that’s hit by it, let alone people.

However, that’s an entire cannon, meant to be manned by a team of technicians.

This here is a smaller, weaker version. It’s light and only needs one person to use it — only functioning in the hands of high-level casters with a lot of magic to spare. It’s a type of weapon that will change the nature of war forever to come. It was already in development long before the Demon-King showed up, with the intent being to use it to conquer the Vildt continent as soon as the technology was ready to be mass produced.

But fate intervened.

He aims the experimental weapon down and off of the side of the train, pointing it at the military officer leading the hundred some riders behind the Procession, closing one eye to stare down the length of the thin, metal tube, engraved with a series of numbers and characters meant to serve the weapon’s designation.

This weapon is the end of an era.

When it’s spread around the world, men like him won’t be needed anymore. They’ll die out. Strength won’t come through age, expertise, and practice — it’ll come through the act of possession alone. Levels will be meaningless. A level one commoner with this weapon will be able to aim it at the heart of a level ninety-nine noble blooded champion and pierce their heart from a distance with the pull of a finger. It will be the end of the age of true heroes, the end of the age of Demon-Kings and beasts.

Barlow clicks with his mouth, dropping the arm and holstering it again, as he stares back behind them for a while, narrowing his eyes.

Shit.

— He whistles loudly, his fingers stuck in his mouth. The officer below looks up, following his pointing hand to look behind them at the sky. Barlow turns to one of the logisticians, yanking him over by his dirty, greased stained dress shirt. “Boy. Ring the alarm,” he orders, nodding his head to the cloud forming behind them in the darkness.

“Mister Barlow?” asks the boy, before he stumbles as Barlow pushes him away.

“Get,” orders the man, spitting off the side of the carriages and into the valley below them, as he pulls out another smoke from his pouch, lighting it up and watching as the barrier above them, radiating with heat, begins to flicker and buzz as the now intensifying rain strikes against it.

He takes a draw of the cigarette, the wind blowing the fabric of his poncho toward the oncoming danger he’s facing. He exhales a puff of heavy, acrid smoke, and the vapors snake behind them, taking the form of a serpent for only a fraction of a second, if anyone so happened to be looking at it at that moment long enough to see it do so.

The death of an era, huh?

— His hand rests on the weapon. As the dark clouds draw closer on their trail, hundreds of dead things — rotting things with teeth and claws, things with stretched, warped, leathery skin and fangs like broken knives — hound them on the horizon.

“Demon-King’s here,” mutters the man, as the terrified boy runs off to do as told.

The rear guard splits, with half of them breaking off to turn around and intercept the pursuing threat.

Barlow looks ahead of them. Here on the mountain trail, they can’t be intercepted. The path just isn’t wide enough for more than their single file construct of carriages. But they’re already moving downhill, and there on the other side are open plains.

An odd hundred men ride back down the way they came from. The anqas are particularly well suited to moving in masses in this narrow, treacherous environment. After the rear guard splits in half, Barlow looks up at the mountainside to the right, his finger tapping against the iron on his waist as he thinks.

— Something moves up on the rocks.

His eyes go wide.

“AMBUSH!” yells the man as shadows drop down from above.

~ [Swig] ~

Half-Elf, ⚥, Indentured Servant {Logistician} Location: The Northern Procession Level: 20

Iron is the key component.

Swig sits on the chair, their face pressed down into their work as they fiddle around in the inner chamber of a long version of the experimental weapon with a set of precision tools.

It’s long been known that fairies hate iron, but it was never really understood why. It was just a natural weakness and accepted as such, in the same manner that undead hate holy magic. However, magical research has recently discovered the real reason for this in the black facilities of the nation. Fairies are living beings, considered to be members of the common races like humans or elves. However, there is a snag, and that is that fairies aren’t born to parents; rather, they are born from the world, from its natural ambient magics.

This was the first hint.

It turns out that it isn’t that fairies are averse to iron in and of themselves; it’s that the world’s ambient magic currents, for whatever undiscovered reason, seem to act differently around iron than around other metals. The reasons for this are still unclear, but it doesn’t really matter why. What matters is that the concept, even if not understood, can be harnessed.

By placing iron filaments in precise, delicately decided locations in a cylinder, ambient magic, which is present in the air around oneself at all times, can be moved through a funnel, bouncing away from one disrupting iron filament to the next until it reaches a critical stage of energetics, at which point it finds the only way out — the end of the cylinder.

It’s a beautiful technology. It will truly change the world.

Swig has always had an affinity for this sort of work, and after making an off-handed suggestion to the head researcher of the operation in passing, they were immediately requested to be allowed to work on these sorts of devices. It’s obviously a very unusual job for an indentured servant to have. But this is an unusual time, and Swig obviously intends to make full use of it. It’s sitting work and guaranteed hours.

— Bells ring all around the Procession, shouts and cries fill the air.

Swig lifts their head, wiping their face free from the grease that has smeared it with their sweaty sleeve, before looking around. They run to the window, sticking their head out of it and looking back behind themselves at the dark aura that fills the sky past the glowing light of the spell covering the caravan, dry winds rushing through their hair.

There’s a loud crashing sound on the ceiling. Swig looks up and then quickly shuts the window as the doors burst open, with guards running in to grab weapons from the racks.

The light from outside flickers, as something touches the glow above the Procession.

Claws rip through the roof. Swig screams and falls down, covering their head as a man is impaled with a long talon and dragged through the hole, the other guardsmen trying to pull him back in.

~ [Barlow] ~

Human, ♂, Mercenary Location: The Northern Procession Level: 100

A crack shoots through the night, like the strike of a whip, as he holds his hand outstretched against the wind, smoking metal singing as something drops down dead at his feet — a hole cutting straight through its head.

Barlow looks at it out of the corner of his eye. It’s a scaly, leathery thing. It has two legs like a man, but its face is stretched out and contorted like a lizard’s. It has long claws like curved knives.

— All in the same moment, his hand has been moving over the weapon, cranking the hammer on the back of it into place, before his finger presses down a second time, sending another shot straight ahead into the neck of a second one.

He dives out of the way, rolling across the rattling carriages, aiming where he was just standing as something crashes down into the spot from above, roaring at him until the iron roars back and it falls over, dead.

The day glow of the aura above their heads is cut through with wildfire, as concentrated blasts of magic shoot through the air by the hundreds, as the mounted soldiers remaining behind the Procession aim up towards the cliffs as they ride, firing up at the dropping shadows that fall like rainwater.

Bodies of all kinds, dead and alive, thud down around them.

— A hiss fills his ears, and he looks down at a survivor, running away from him, towards the front of the carriages, towards the coachman at the far end. He quickly aims at it, pulling the trigger.

Something hits him in the back and he fumbles, the shot missing and cracking into the cliffside as he falls over, rolling just in time to catch the clawed hand pressing down towards his face.

Barlow presses his legs against its heavy gut, the muscle bound animal snarling and swiping at him like a rabid bear, as he, with his back pressed against the roof of the carriages, kicks and rolls to the side.

The monster falls off of him, its claws scrambling for the edge of the carriage as it tumbles.

— A second later, its grip releases as thunder cracks. Barlow, having grabbed the iron weapon, turns and aims down the carriages, narrowing an eye to make the shot, which is out of the weapon’s optimal range at best.

The man bites on his cigarette and pulls the trigger, a flicker of light cutting through the air and through the monster’s waist, the projectile having dropped in height as he fired it against the wind.

“Shit!” mutters the mercenary, scrambling to his feet, trying to fire again, but the iron is empty. It needs a recharge after six shots. His palm spins over the cylinder in its core, a rotational device meant to funnel in a stronger flower of ambient magic through its rotation.

However, he’s too slow.

The monster reaches the final carriage, roaring as it drips black blood everywhere at the coachman, who looks behind himself.

— A streak of yellow cuts through the air, its head splitting in half, sending a spray of black blood and viscera through the air together with fragments of bones.

The half-elf from before is leaned out of a window, holding a long-arm, turning back his way from the distance.

He nods before turning back to look at the area behind them.

— The dark cloud hasn’t slowed down at all. Whatever the hell that interception team was supposed to do, it sure as hell didn’t work.

The ground at his feet wobbles.

Barlow looks down below himself at the carriage he’s standing on top of as its momentum changes somehow.

What the…

He turns his head, realizing that it’s been separated from the rest of the Procession. The man runs as they fall apart, gritting his teeth as he jumps across the growing gap. Screams fill the air behind him as something catches in the wheels of the detached carriage, causing it to tumble and crash into the fully speeding riders behind it, sending half of them flying off of the mountainside, the other half breaking their bodies in a horrific impact.

Barlow catches the edge, kicking his legs down into the head of one of the lizards that had snuck inside, sending it careening down onto the road and breaking its bones as it tumbles.

The man swings his legs for momentum, before dropping into the torn open back segment of the Procession, looking down at the mangled, half-eaten body at his feet of some cook with shackles on his wrists, before turning to look back at the wreckage behind them, trails of smoke from his cigarette leaving in the wind, as ash crumbles from the edge of it.

They survived the ambush, so they have a pause for now, but it won’t take long until they’re caught up with.

The cliff sides lessen as they leave the ambush territory; the carriages move through the mountain valleys that they now leave; the road takes a downhill turn.

~ [Swig] ~

Half-Elf, ⚥, Indentured Servant {Logistician} Location: The Northern Procession Level: 20

“Strip,” orders the officer.

It is an hour later.

Swig knows better than to argue at this point and removes their clothes. “Turn around,” he orders. “Touch the wall.”

The half-elf turns around, placing their palms against the wall.

He reaches past them, fastening the chains to the iron bracelets around their wrists.

It’s only ten. As long as they don’t scream, it’s only going to be ten. So it’ll be fine. Ten is easy. They’ve done ten before. Hell, Cheeky had ten today too. If she can handle it, then this is going to be fine. Swig likes to remind themselves of these sorts of things before such sessions begin.

If you scream, you get additional punishment for fostering demoralization amongst the ranks.

The thing is, good intentioned as it may have been in the prior situation, raising a weapon is never, ever, EVER allowed for an indentured servant to do. In a life or death situation, the official military stance is for them to choose death. So given that Swig’s life wasn’t directly in danger per se, well… rules are rules.

Swig slowly exhales, loosening their back.

“Thirty,” says the officer.

Swig’s eyes open again, staring at the wall in sudden fear. Thirty?!

— A deafening crack fills the room.

Spit flies out through Swig’s quickly clenched teeth, the foaming of it preventing a sharp yelp from leaving their mouth. A sharp burning moves through their back, as the broken skin rips open where the cane strikes, peeling open as if a hot knife were running over their back. Their ears ring.

He hits again, and Swig’s fingers curl against the wall that they’re chained to, their muscles spasming from the pain. Blood begins to form on the red skin.

“I still need it for work,” says a man from the side, who is watching. Swig doesn’t turn their head, but recognizes the voice as belonging to the researcher in charge of the weapons.

“Don’t worry,” says the officer. “It’ll work.”

— A new crack runs through the room, Swig doesn’t bite their lip. That’s a lesson learned from the old-timers. If you bite your lip, you’ll bite through it. Instead, they fill their mouth with air, clenching their teeth. But Swig does cry — quietly. As long as one doesn’t scream, urinate, or fight back, it’s only the designated amount and not one more than that.

“Twenty seven.”

There is another crack, and the metal bracelets rattle against the wall they’re bound to.

Swig tries to think about flying away. But thoughts don’t come so easily right now.

“Twenty six.”

Swig makes a mistake and screams after all. It really does hurt a lot.

“Thirty.”

~ [Barlow] ~

Human, ♂, Mercenary Location: The Northern Procession Level: 100

Barlow sits inside atop a stack of crates, playing with the weapon in his hands, his feet kicked up as he smokes inside the carriage-chain.

A door opens nearby, and he looks as the half elf, holding some fabric in their arms, is thrown out of a room, landing down naked on the floor, blood running everywhere down from a grotesquely mangled back. The heavy shackles on their wrists clatter as they hit the floors.

He draws from his cigarette, blowing some smoke into the air, and watches as they just lay there.

The door behind them slams shut.

— And that’s it.

Nobody comes to move the creature away. Nobody comes to clean them up and bandage them. Nobody even comes to tell them they’re in the way, lying there bleeding and naked in the middle of the corridor.

“It was a good shot,” says Barlow, looking back out of the window. “Guess you’re a natural.” He puts his weapon away, puffing on the cigarette for a few minutes.

By the time he looks back, they’re just sitting there on its knees, holding the stained clothes in its arms and staring at the wall with eyes that don’t really blink much.

There’s a light splashing sound.

The metal flask in his hand catches the light as he shakes it, choosing to ignore the urine dribbling onto the floor below the half-elf. Sometimes there are just days like that. He gets it. “You drink?” he offers.

The half-elf turns their eyes toward him, staring for a time and then looking down at themselves.

A shaking hand reaches out for the metal flask.

“Your friends are dead, probably,” says Barlow. “Lots of uneaten hands back there,” he says, nodding behind himself to the back carriages of the Procession. The half-elf’s fingers touch the metal only lightly, as if it were expected for him to yank it away any second now. He instead lets go, and the half-elf lets out a yelp, scrambling and falling forward to catch the dropping flask, having not expected him to do so. “All the bits that were covered in metal. Guess they didn’t like that.”

The broken half-elf sits upright on their knees, leaning back and drinking from the flask without bothering to even sniff-check it.

A second later, they cough, spluttering as the violently strong alcohol claws at their throat, but then just leans back and downs the rest.

Barlow drops his boots down to the ground, rising to his feet and walking through the puddles of spilled liquor, urine, and blood indifferently to their presence – combined or otherwise. They’re common fluids in his field of work.

“When you’re done, put on some pants and meet me at the front,” he says. “I have a job for you.”

~ [The Demon-King] ~

Bones churn, cracking and breaking apart as hundreds of men scream who had come to intercept them in terror as they’re ripped off of their mounts, pulled into the vortex of clawing, creeping meat that lumbers, hounding after the convoy of carriages they’re still chasing down.

“My lord,” says Cartouche. “They’ve left the mountain. We’ll catch up to them within the hour.”

“Good,” says the Demon-King, nodding his head. “Cartouche,” he says, looking at the dancer. “This dance is yours,” he commands, looking back at the vision of the human convoy. “Please me.”

She bows out, vanishing.

“It’ll be a show you’ll never forget,” promises the dancer.