Demon Core

~ [Barlow] ~

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

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

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

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

Metal ratchets into place, thousands of cartridges of finger sized vials full of alchemical powers rattling around in a container. Barlow turns his head, looking at the elf who has thrown a shirt over themselves, the fabric sticking to their own back because of the blood covering it, causing the material to crust and bind to their skin, staining it deeply brown and red. The half-elf hasn’t said anything yet; he's just doing what he said.

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

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

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

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

Sometimes this person wears the face of a man as the guardsman, moving to the front lines of an insurrection ‘just until their next station’. Sometimes it’s a woman who has to work the streets ‘only for a few nights’. Sometimes it’s a kid, who just has to wait ‘only until their family comes back’. But in the end, it doesn’t matter who’s wearing the face that day that he sees it.

None of them ever make it out. He’s never seen a single one do so.

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

Today, it’s ‘just until my time is done’.

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

Nobody gets out alive.

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

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

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

They’re even. One for one.

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

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

The cigarette moves to the other side of his mouth.

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

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

It’s funny.

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

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

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

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

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

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

— ‘Free’.

~ [Cartouche] ~

Gallu | ♀ | Dancer Location: The Demon-King’s Castle Level: 100

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

The same applies to the art of dance.

The artistic pursuit isn’t just the pursuit of the perfection of an act itself. A dancer may perform the same routine a thousand times over in pursuit of the physical perfection of the actual act of the dance, yes. However, this then perfected dance is just another tool of a higher level. Much the same way as a musician will master a piece, only to then learn another, only to then learn another, so, too, does the instrument of the body itself move, following the grace of unheard, ethereal notes of song in pursuit of a perfection of a higher state.

It isn’t the perfection that matters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— No.

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

Freedom.

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

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

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

~ [Swig] ~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Any dismembered body parts have been discarded, likely just thrown out of the back rather than collected for anything close to a dignified burial. People like them; they don’t get buried. They get dumped.

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

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

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

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

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

Who knows? Maybe it is.

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

Snake eyes.

Swig climbs to the roof.

~ [Barlow] ~

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

“We’ll need to change our route, Reverend,” says Barlow, standing before the desk of the man sitting there with folded hands.

“Absolutely not,” replies the officer in charge of this operation without a second’s hesitation. He’s not just a military figure; he’s also a ranking member of the Holy-Church, who has a large presence in the underworld of national magical technology development. His tightly fitting, perfectly tailored uniform sticks to him like glue as he points down to the map on the desk with his right hand. A small experimental weapon of the same manufacture as all of the others sits nestled tightly in his right breast pocket, the grip sticking out over his dress-shirt, as if it were an ornamental piece rather than a functional one. “Mr. Barlow. We’re heading straight for the capital, just like before. Especially after this shit-show.” He clears his throat, making a loud coughing noise.

Barlow stares at him for a moment before pulling the still lit cigarette out of his mouth. The two men stare at one another as he then puffs out the smoke and simply puts it right back between his lips.

“Demon-King’s gonna catch us,” replies Barlow, placing both of his hands on the desk and leaning over it, pressing his face and the lit cigarette closer towards the man, ash dropping on his ironed uniform coat, which he quickly dusts off. “When a predator that’s faster than you has your scent, you don’t run straight,” explains the mercenary. “You take some turns.”

“Mr. Barlow,” replies the officer. “You are a guest in my operation. I ask that you mind your place.”

Smoke ekes through Barlow’s teeth. “I’m a guest the same way you’re a man of the cloth, Reverend,” says the man, looking at the vaguely maybe or maybe not offended officer, who is trying to figure him out. “We’re both here for the money.” Barlow leans back, pointing down at the map. “The Demon-King doesn’t want us. He wants the capital,” explains the mercenary. His finger trails over the map, over the prairie that they’re traversing, not to the north, but to the west. “If we break off and go west, he’ll just ride past us on his way to the capital,” explains Barlow, tapping against the city far to the north. “Demon-King’s faster than we are. We should just let him pass, wait a day, and then keep going.”

“That will not be possible, Mr. Barlow,” replies the officer. “I didn’t take you for a coward,” insinuates the man, raising an eyebrow and waiting for a moment to see if he reacts or not. Although apart from the cigarette switching to the other side of his mouth, nothing much else happens. “Our route came from the nation’s high-command,” replies the Reverend, almost let down by the lack of escalation. “We’re not allowed to deviate.”

“I think you’ll agree that the scribes in some tower didn’t write those orders with the Demon-King breathing up their asses,” remarks Barlow.

It’s quiet for a moment as the officer crosses his hands on his desk, staring him down. “Do you drink, Mr. Barlow?”

“Every day,” replies Barlow.

“You look the part,” replies the reverend. “I don’t. Ever.” The man rises up from behind his desk. “You see, Mr. Barlow, I am a functional member of a proper society,” he explains. “I don’t need such crutches.” He stands there, holding his hands behind his back. “I am, unlike yourself, a capable, self-regulating adult who knows how to groom himself, how to take care of his health, and who — most importantly — Mr. Barlow -” says the officer, folding the map together. “- knows how to do the work he is being paid to do without overstepping.”

He opens a drawer, putting the map inside.

The officer nods to the door. “I suggest that you do your job, which you are capable of doing in any room that is not my office.”

Barlow draws the last of the cigarette down to its base, the orange cinders encroaching on his stubble like wildfire. “He’ll catch us when the moon’s out,” says Barlow, looking at the window painted by orange light as he takes the stump out of his mouth and then flicks it into the air, blowing out the last of the smoke as he turns to leave the room.

There’s a fuss as it lands right inside of the still open drawer, to which he pays no mind as he closes the door behind himself, walking past a stained whipping cane on the wall.

The difference between the people of formal society and those of informal society is always stark, and the complexities of such interactions are deep in many ways, often. Even within higher bred families reaching the tiers of nobility, there are formalities that must be regarded in interactions. The officer, while not a noble, is still a high ranking member of both the military and the Holy-Church, putting him in a tier above the elevated merchant class of lower society, but below the lowest tiers of nobility.

This means power.

But the gaps here are immense. The gap between a low tier noble and a man such as the officer is overwhelming. Just the same, the gap between the officer and an indentured servant or even himself is, theoretically, overwhelming.

However, he’s achieved a reputation that surpasses his blood, creating a status and ranking for himself that is ascendant from the origins of his birth.

In short, he can do whatever the hell he wants. If he’s talking to a noble, a high born, a slave, or anyone else. He’s free to act as he wants and, in turn, suffer the consequences of those actions accordingly, rather than being bound by tight social laws.

He got out of the system.

Barlow goes to get ready for the hunting night to come.

He’s free, in the truest sense of the word, and this is only possible because of the span of his power being far above that of those higher ranking people around him. With things like these weapons however…

— That’s threatened.

~ [Swig] ~

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

The orange streak of magical light, blazing above the carriages of the Procession, cuts through the darkness that fails to cool in any substantial way. The radiating, cooking heat presses out into the darkness as they shoot across the landscape, giving perhaps the appearance for anyone watching from off in the distance that they were a comet cutting through the night — bright and blazing.

— That they were flying.

It is many hours later. Swig has since returned to work, drinking the allotment of water that was theirs and then also the allotment that was meant for the dead. The hot winds cause the air around them to wobble.

“POTIONS!” yells Swig, pointing down the line to the front. Another logistician there yelps, scrambling to secure the crate that had come free and was in the process of sliding off. Swig’s boot is pressed against a metal-framed box, tied down with a leather strap that they’re holding onto and pulling back to tighten. Given the haphazard logistics of this operation, a lot of this was done on the fly, and it’s a wonder they haven’t lost much of anything yet.

But that’s because they do good work.

The half-elf looks at the other worker, Dot-Five, standing just next to themselves, pulling on a strap. The woman has her eyes closed and is breathing heavily to try and survive the heatstroke. But she’s wobbling on her legs. “Just a minute longer,” says Swig.

There’s not really another option. Either you do good work or you get replaced with someone who does, and you won’t get hours anymore. Swig’s seen a few people come and go from the team, entering in for only a few shifts before then just never getting assigned another one ever again.

The second shirt Swig has on and unbuttoned flaps in the wind; the first one is also open but stuck too tightly to their back from crusted blood to be removed without reopening the wounds.

The heat from above is nothing compared to the passive heat in the air, though. The Demon-King’s presence is something else. It’s beyond any summer heat. It’s like being in an oven. Add to that the misaligned spell from above, and it’s amazing that the carriages— or any of them — haven't all caught fire yet.

But it makes it impossible to work. The heat is too much. They can only ever manage a minute or two before they have to go back down again to recover before then climbing out again. However, this level of exertion is just as unhelpful as just staying in the heat would be.

“Dot! Let’s get this down!” orders Swig, looking at Dot-Five next to them.

— Who isn’t there.

The other strap next to where Swig is standing flaps freely in the wind with nobody to hold onto it.

For a second, Swig looks back behind them into the darkness, the Procession shaking wildly from its pace over the the uneven terrain, and then looks back at the straps, grabbing both of them and pulling tightly to secure the load, grunting and then wincing as the shirt on their back rips free from the crusting wounds, the popping of the fabric and the skin indistinguishable from one another.

All of these items are regularly secured. However, given the nature of the Procession and the terrain that it crosses, straps, fastenings, and cords all have a way of loosening and becoming undone by themselves. They need to be regularly adjusted.

Someone whistles from the front, the tone being passed down along the line until it reaches Swig, who then essentially drops over, crawling back down into the hatch below, not so much climbing down as flopping into the hole, soaked to the bone from top to bottom with sweat — so much so that it honestly doesn’t even feel like it’s helping them to cool down anymore and is instead making it even harder to breathe, to live. The world spins, as it has been doing for the last few hours of this shift.

It’s a little cooler down below.

Swig closes their eyes, just laying on the floor in the wet, and purses their lips to pass the whistle on, even though they're the last on in the line, passing it on to those who lie behind the Procession in significant numbers, letting them know that they can take a break now too.

“Do you make these?” asks a voice from just next to them.

Swig opens their eyes, rolling their head to look at the stranger, Mr. Barlow, who is looking down at them with his weapon in his hand, but Swig’s vision is spinning so much that it looks like there are five of him, each of them holding out an arm in a different direction, coming together into a collage of wings formed of metal and rope.

— A bucket of water is poured over their head from above.

Swig coughs and sputters, breathing in a large mouthful of it before spinning around onto their stomach and pressing it back out.

The half-elf lifts their gaze, looking at him, diluted blood running down their nape. “No, Mr. Barlow, sir. I just assemble them,” explains Swig, trying to figure out what he wants. “The head researcher; he’s the one who makes the pieces.”

Swig looks down at the water puddled beneath them on the floor, staring at it, and then up at the man without saying anything, as if quietly asking if it was okay to drink it.

Barlow kneels down, squatting at face height, holding his weapon sideways between the two of them.

“What’s your name?” he asks, his voice growling like the crushing of rocks beneath the iron-clad wheels of the carriage they’re in.

Swig sits upright on their knees, looking at it and then him. “S- Swig, Mr. Barlow,” says the half-elf, rebuttoning both of their shirts to cover up again.

He spits to the side on the floor. “Don’t give me that shit,” barks the man, entirely indifferent. “What’s your name?”

The half-elf stiffens up for a moment, the hands stuck to the buttons they were fumbling with. Swig’s eyes wander the carriage, soaked in the filth of the bodies of everyone who has ever died in this work, whether today or last month, or the years before. There are hundreds of people like Swig. Thousands. And in one way or another, the presence of their death is always present. The half-elf is one of them. They’re not whoever they were before this.

That person died too. They also fell off of the Procession.

“Swiggy Bird,” replies the half-elf, looking back at him, their soaked, greasy, short hair stuck to their face, not sure what he wants.

He grunts, getting up.

“I have another job for you, Swiggy Bird,” says Barlow, looking down toward them.

Swig shakes their head. “I can’t, Mr. Barlow,” explains the half-elf. “I already helped you once, but I can’t drop this shift.” Swig points to the ceiling and to the cargo above it. “Cargo needs to stay secured.” They lower their gaze. “…I’ll get the stick if it falls.”

Barlow shakes his head, walking a few steps away toward the door to the carriage leading onward. “Oh, they broke you good, huh?” he asks. Swig lifts their head, looking at the man. “You’re a dead bird in an open cage, Swiggy,” says Barlow.

“W- what?” asks Swig.

“Your choice,” says Barlow. “Take the job, or die here.”

He lifts the gun, and Swig flinches, covering their face and falling back onto their hinds in terror, only to watch a second later through the gaps in their arms as he lifts it higher still, holding it above his head.

— A second later, there’s a crack of thunder and a radiating, violent light filling the room as wood and metal splinter in all directions, breaking glass and the weakened legs of half-broken shelves. The carriage rattles, and Swig falls around, tumbling for a second as there’s a disturbance, landing on their hands and knees and looking on ahead as the two carriages in the back begin to separate from one another — the one that the half-elf is in falling back into the darkness behind the Procession.

Barlow holsters the gun, tipping his hat as they begin to separate from one another. “Now would you look at that?” he says, shaking his head. “The carriage just came off by itself.” The man shrugs, shaking his head, his poncho blowing in the winds that begin to fill the gap. “Guess all the cargo is fucked. Oh well.”

Swig’s eyes go wide as they scramble, crawling at first and then clawing and then running as they sprint through the tiny corridor for the few steps available, all in one strangely graceless yet highly efficient motion as they scream, jumping across the gap and flailing, just barely grabbing hold of the other side’s connecting door and to Barlow, who is standing on the foot-width back platform, at the same time.

The terrified half-elf looks back at the darkness behind them, at the carriage that hits a rock, crashing violently over itself before vanishing a second later into the night in a violent wreck.

A moment later, Swig turns back to look back at him. “You smoke?” asks Barlow, raising an eyebrow and reaching into his shirt, past one of Swig’s sweaty, terrified, skeletal hands, which is still holding onto his chest for dear life.

“N- No. Mr. Barlow, sir,” says Swig, letting go of him and leaning with their throbbing back against the wall, as the two of them watch the darkness behind them, which seems to somehow be closer than it was only moments ago.

There’s something there, moving not far in the distance.

The Demon-King is almost there. Even down here, below the top of the Procession, the heat is becoming unbearable.

“I think I’d like to start, though,” says Swig, looking at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— Something bumps into her.

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

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

“I trust you won’t touch anything tonight,” says a voice from the side. Swig turns their gaze, looking at the head researcher of the project, and then shakes their head quietly. “Good. You’re suited for this work, but I will replace you if I need to.”

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

The man nods. “Big test tonight. Doesn’t get bigger than this. Get ready for a long shift when I’m back from the show.”

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

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

~ [Barlow] ~

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

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

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

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

The reverend clears his throat as Barlow walks off.

“Mr. Barlow. There is work to do. I trust you’ll be staying?”

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

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

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

The man doesn’t have a chance to reply before the night is cut short by the screams of ten-thousand wailing dead. They turn back to look as the vague shadows of the distant horizon that have, until now, contained only faint nightmares and imaginations, come into full formation. The ground shaking, the orange light above their heads flickering wildly as the magic is overpowered by an approaching presence, until the heating spell simply dies out entirely.

“Lights,” orders the Reverend.

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

Men scream and fire without order.

~ [Swig] ~

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s locked.

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

The map.

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

— There.

That’s not far from here now, though. They’ll have to hurry.

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

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

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

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

~ [Barlow] ~

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

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

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

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

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

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

Barlow narrows his eyes.

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

“You see, Mr. Barlow,” says the Reverend, crossing his arms behind his back again as gunfire whizzes past the two of their heads towards the demon-beast. “We live in a new world now,” explains the officer, looking his way. “It’s a world that people like the man you are now ought to be terrified of,” he states, narrowing his eyes. “A world that the Demon-King ought to be terrified of, Mr. Barlow.” He smiles. “But that isn’t your real name, is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” replies Barlow, watching as the greatest creation of evil that he has ever seen is broken apart and butchered by volleys of magic. His shaking fingers graze the metal on his hip, twitching as they touch it, before wandering to the flask next to it.

~ [The Demon-King] ~

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

~ A Thing that Pursues ~

- Summoned Entity -

It can’t be escaped. It can’t be fought. It can’t be hidden from.

It is the poison that eats at the soul.

The bane of the prideful, the Thing that Pursues isn’t only a monster made of flesh and bones; existing also on a spiritual layer below that is connected to people’s hearts. It is the monster that hunts those it has already caught, that stalks those it has already found, and eats those who have already been consumed by its influence. It is the obsession that haunts a person’s head, living in it, gnawing away at them until, one day, they are willing to give themselves to it freely.

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

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