Demon Core - Chapter 11: Bedwetter
~ [Kirsch ‘Bluetenbaum’] ~
Human, Female, Classless (Child) Location: National Magical Research Institute, Warding Tower Seven, Bedroom LEVEL: 03
“I’m scared,” says the girl, holding the soft edges of her thick blanket as she looks at the face of her mother. She then looks around the room, staring at her doll and other things for a moment.
The woman, with short, shoulder length brown hair, leans down and plants a kiss on the girl’s forehead, pulling the blanket up snugly around her and prying her hands off of its edge. Down at the girl’s wrists are marks, from where blood is regularly extracted.
“There’s no need to be,” says her mother, stroking her hair and getting the girl’s attention again. “We’re safe here.”
“Mom… Is the Demon-King going to eat me?” asks the girl, fighting free from her comfortable state of having been tucked in in order to grasp the blanket again.
“No, we’re safe here,” repeats the woman, pulling the girl’s hands free a second time, before tucking her in again and then standing up. “Go to sleep, okay? Good night.”
“Can you leave the door open?” she asks. The woman looks down at her and then towards the door to the hallway, where light creeps in to brighten the bedroom a little. “Please?”
“Sure,” she replies, rubbing her head and then going. “Good night. If anything scares you, your uncle is in the hallway. I’ll be back later to check on you.”
“Good night…” says the girl, watching the woman go. Then, after a moment of silence, she lifts her hands out to freedom again to grab the edges of the blanket, sliding down deeper with only her eyes peeking out as she looks around the half-dark bedroom. After a moment of observing that everything is safe, she nonetheless hides down beneath her blanket, fully covering herself in the safety that it offers.
The Demon-King is scary.
~ [Magnolien Bluetenbaum] ~
Human, Female, Prime Sorceress (Arcane) Title: Head Warding Researcher of the National Magical Research Institute Location: National Magical Research Institute, Warding Tower Seven, Research Subject Containment Corridor LEVEL: 90
Magnolien walks down the tower hallway, limping with her bad leg, as she goes to return back to work after tucking the girl in. It’s not that her leg is hurt, rather, it was hurt a long time ago. The bone never set right, and since then, she’s had a troubled gait. It’s of the highest priority that she returns to her work now, though.
She stops, looking over her shoulder towards the bedroom.
This isn’t her home. The national magical research institute is where she works. But given her hours and the time she spends here, it may as well be her house. She lives here more than she does at her place in the village. But that turned out to be a blessing in disguise. It’s the safest place there is anywhere short of the capital that she can think of. The warding that is passively built into this complex, plus the active warding coming in from the other towers, comes together to make a defensive magical barrier that is quite easily perhaps one of the strongest in this and any nation.
The researcher looks back ahead of herself and hobbles down the hallway towards a window, out of which six other towers can be seen, all of them forming a ring around the central, inner complex. Magical leylines of many colors, artificially created by the greatest generations of magical researchers to ever grace this world, span between them like the spun threads of a spider’s web or like the wicker threads of a basket.
And there, just outside of the complex and its magical walls, just beneath the washing cover of starlight, is nothing but festering ash for as far as the eye can see. A sea of smoldering, suffocating flame is all that fills the world for as far as she can see in the night.
Magnolien grips the edge of a windowsill, staring out at the distant landscape that surrounds them on all sides, pelted by the storm as if they were a ship out on the violently churning sea.
They’re already long since inside of the heart of the Demon-King’s territory. However, the protective warding of the complex keeps them safe from his rot.
She keeps walking, needing to get back down to the research facility. She fully intends to do everything in her power to stop this monstrosity from ever reaching her pride and joy.
A soldier stands by the stairwell, standing up straight as she walks past.
“I left the girl’s bedroom door open,” she explains, nodding back down the hallway. “Nobody comes in or goes out of this corridor,” she orders.
“Yes, ma’am,” replies the elite guardsman, closing the door and tightly locking it before she goes.
~ [The Demon-King] ~
Level Up! ~ [The Demon-King] ~
You are now level {82}! Level: 82↗ Experience: 5789/595750 Attribute: DARK Soul-Points: 176/176↗ Presence: 16.1 km ↗ Obols: 000 SOULS COLLECTED: 29,989 / 1,000,000
You have {30} free Ability Points to spend!
It has been days now since the fall of the city and the man who had fervently guarded it against the Demon-King, despite his clear inability to pull through with his deeply held desires.
The Demon-King sits on his horrific throne, staring through his many eyes at the thing that bothers him most in this world right now. He looks at the blemish on the landscape, a castle of sorts, ringed by many towers. The humans have a citadel of sorts here, a fortification that he, despite his greatest and most grand efforts, is simply unable to reach into and touch. They’ve woven very powerful magic into the fabrics of its making.
It’s like he were a bird, flying around a foggy glass sphere that he can never reach into. It obscures not only his ability to enter but also simply his ability to see what is happening inside its walls.
How many humans are in there?
Ten? Ten-thousand? A million? He simply can’t tell, and it drives him mad that there is a place where they can hide in the midst of his creation. The fact that there is a cyst in the canvas of his living work, where they might continue to befoul and ruin the world with their ugly, horrific presences, is simply not something he can abide by.
Even if it means that the carnival has stopped on its journey for a full day and some hours, he refuses to simply ignore it and move onward, as would a lazy seamstress simply pass over a loose thread in her work to sew a gown.
It’s sloppy, ugly.
But he can’t figure it out. Whatever the humans have established here, it’s even a match for his power. He supposes that it is testament to their ability. After all, while there are many who would invest the energy of their souls to find the real thing of meaning in this world, beauty, there are others out there who would expend their energy to find other novel, token prizes.
They falter in comparison to the true grace of the infinite spectacle of the grandeur of cosmic beauty, but the human mind is wont for many things.
He wonders… what is it that they’re searching for here? What could possibly be the reason for this investment of energy?
The Demon-King taps his massive fingers against the armrest of the throne, wondering as ghosts and spirits dance around his throne-room in a waltz that may never come to an end.
One of them is out of place.
He turns his head and his many eyes, looking at the odd shape that has made itself manifest in his presence. It looks like a ghost, but it is not like any of his claimed souls. It’s simply a presence, a thing, hovering there and watching him.
An intruder?
How curious.
It looks like the creatures inside the bubble have extended themselves out with their magic to watch him through some form of scrying spell. He rests his head on his massive fist, watching the glowing orb staying entirely stationary, as if it were an out of place wallflower in the midst of the waltz taking place below it.
They just can’t help themselves, can they?
He smiles.
“Paper,” orders the Demon-King, a wailing spirit bringing him several sheets to write on.
~ [Seaman Minani-ni] ~
Vildt (Feline), Male, Master Sailor Location: High-seas of the great eastern ocean, The Abigalia LEVEL: 76
Waves crash all around them, the water roaring as it strikes the sides of the ships like raging thunder. Seaman Minani-ni holds firmly onto a rope, pulling on it together with three other men as they work on adjusting the sails. The storm, though… he’s never seen anything like it. The rain simply never ends. It’s been going for days now, and, even more strangely, the wind simply never shifts.
It always blows toward the west, towards their destination, as if it were eagerly ferrying them towards the darkness that lies in wait for them and the other ships of the armada. It’s as if they were sailing around the edge of a whirlpool that is so large that none of them could see the central maelstrom, despite clearly feeling its effects on their movements.
They really are being swallowed.
His body and ears are soaked with saltwater, and his leathery skin is showing signs of age far beyond his years because of the nature of the work on the ocean.
Because of the flash he sees, he can only assume that lightning strikes in the distance.
— The Abigalia rocks far out of her usual motions, the large ship suddenly turning to the side sharply from its course. The sails croak, groaning, as the force of the shifting water counteracts the direction that the mast is held at. Wood splinters, cracking apart and falling down to the deck as something above them breaks. He falls down, painfully tumbling and rolling over as the piece of the ship crashes down, crushing the men just before him.
Minani-ni grabs hold of the railing that his back is pressed against as he rights himself back up again, together with the Abigalia, rocking in the waves. Screams fill the deck as people run around, trying to correct whatever anarchy has befallen them from some surge of the ocean.
He rises to his feet, steadying himself to help the crew unpin the trapped men, whose fate he had only avoided by the sheer luck of being the last one in line on the rope. His eyes gaze out over the water beyond their own ship, as he sees similar problems arising on many of the other boats. Fires sit atop several decks, two of which he recognizes as belonging to the Hope and the Soft Miranda, sister ships of theirs.
— Another flash of light suddenly fills the air as the fire seems to catch in one of the boats, the alchemical armory transport.
Immediately, the dark, rainy night fills with a blinding light as an explosion fills the night, glowing brighter than any star in the sky or moon hiding behind the heavy clouds that never fade.
He covers his face, dropping to the deck as a surge of shrapnel and pressure flies over them, tearing dozens of ships apart at once.
~ [Magnolien Bluetenbaum] ~
Human, Female, Prime Sorceress (Arcane) Title: Head Warding Researcher of the National Magical Research Institute Location: National Magical Research Institute, Warding Tower Seven, Underground Research Facility LEVEL: 90
She steps into the main magical research facility, nestled in the basement of Tower Seven. Each of the six other towers has its own specialization, all of them focused on defensive spell-weaving. Her lab’s focus is the arcane school of magic, the base, ‘neutral’ form of all magical resonances. It’s proving particularly useful right now as well, as both the holy and the dark elements are weak against the forces of arcane magic. The latter is, of course, of particular relevance right now, as it would seem that all of the Demon-King’s magic is dark based.
This is great for them. This situation, while dire, gives them the ability to gather critical data on the nature of magical interactions, particularly in the collision of high-energy forces. What’s more high-energy than the magic of the one-hundred year crisis? This is an opportunity that generations of researchers would sell their souls to experience just once.
Magnolien looks up, lifting her head to look at the many walkways full of dozens of members of her lab who run around frantically. All of them are jolted up on alchemical concoctions designed to fill them with energy and vigor. There isn’t time to sleep now. Time is of the essence; they might never get an opportunity like this ever again.
“Maggy, look at this!” says a man running over – Adams – holding a sheet of paper that some calculations have been scribbled down onto with runny ink that is still flowing over the paper in his hands, becoming a smeared mess.
“What?” she asks, grabbing it. “Is it the interferer interaction?” she asks, looking over it and walking. Adams half-jogs next to her, barely able to contain his excitement, despite the bags under his eyes that look so heavy that they might as well be draping all the way down to his boots.
“It is!” he says. “The scryers got some clear data when we used her blood. We saw him, Maggy!”
“What?” she asks, stopping and looking at him. “You saw the Demon-King?”
He nods his head, running off down to the other side of the room. “Not just that! We’re watching live! You won’t believe the numbers we’re getting!” he explains, turning around mid-run. “We aren’t just seeing him, Maggy. We almost have a full projection!”
She drops the calculation down onto the table there, running off with him to look at the group of scryers sitting in a circle.
This is the work she’s been waiting her whole life to do.
Magical research is her passion at the end of the day; it’s what her soul uses as a tool to find that thing that she’s looking for at the end of the deepest, heaviest question her soul can ask, even if she wouldn’t describe it in such a flowery fashion.
Truth.
The nature of their world is that it is one that is magical. Magic is woven into the physicality of their environment at every level; it’s as integral to life as air or water, and so it seems like a perfectly good site to spend her life digging at if it will allow her to find the answer to life’s great mysteries.
And this may finally be it. This moment, this collision of the crisis, the Demon-King and the potent magical powers of the girl — it is what will allow her to make her greatest and truest realizations of all.
It might finally give her the answers that she wants about the universe and its nature.
Magnolien hobbles on to continue her work that never ends; it only intensifies.
— The ink on the paper she had dropped onto the table, however, continues to drip. The black wetness shifts slowly as numbers begin to turn into letters. This is, of course, a very odd thing for ink to be doing by itself.
But such is the nature of the universe, and it’s not like anyone is watching it do so, so does it really matter?
~ [Kirsch ‘Bluetenbaum’] ~
Human, Female, Classless (Child) Location: National Magical Research Institute, Warding Tower Seven, Bedroom LEVEL: 03
Kirsch obviously can’t sleep.
How could she? The darkness of the room is too heavy, the storm outside of the tower never stops howling, and the rain pelts against the window as if it were a witch’s hand adorned with sharp fingers that keep tap-tap-tapping for her to let it inside. The girl hides as deeply nested beneath her blanket as is possible for her to do.
It’s safe here.
She doesn’t know so much about the tower where they live apart from the room and the corridor, but here, beneath the blanket, it’s safe.
— Thunder cracks outside of her window, rattling the entire tower at once with its deep vibration.
She screams in fright.
All around her room at once, things fly around, breaking as they fly off of shelves and out of drawers that had been closed, as a powerful magical force moves through it.
It’s her own magic again. It happens often when she gets scared. Things around her just… break, or they fly away, or something odd like that. Most often, it’s things, but every now and then, it’s a person. That’s why she’s not allowed to play with other children or have any friends.
She can’t explain it.
Footsteps come down the hallway outside of her room. She listens to their heavy thudding and familiar gait. It’s her uncle.
“You okay?” asks the man’s voice from the doorway of her room a moment later.
Kirsch is quiet, still hiding beneath her blanket. “…I got scared,” she admits after a moment.
“The thunder?” asks the man.
She nods, despite the fact that he can’t see her doing so. But perhaps the man can sense as much, and he walks in, going through the room and closing the shutters on the window.
“I’m just down the hall,” he explains, walking back out of the room. “So get some sleep. It’ll be okay. Uh…” He looks around the room and then stops. “Here, you like your doll, don’t you?” he asks. She can feel something touching her bed next to her. “She’s on your bed now with you.”
“Thank you…” says the girl, listening to the man walk back out of the room, the door creaking as he budges it closed. Not fully, but more closed than it was before when her mom left.
The girl squirms beneath the blanket.
Her doll is a ‘he’, actually, but her uncle doesn’t know that. He often forgets all of the things she tells him.
The Demon-King is so scary. She hates this.
An arm shoots out of safety beneath the blanket for only the briefest second, to grab her doll and pull it inside with her into the shelter.
~ [Birdal] ~
Human, Male, Guardsman Location: National Magical Research Institute, Warding Tower Seven, Research Subject Containment Corridor LEVEL: 75
The man sighs, returning to his post by the door at the end of the corridor.
When he joined the national guardsman troop, he wasn’t expecting to become a nightwatch babysitter. But sometimes life can just surprise you like that, can’t it?
He leans back against the wall, crossing his arms as he stares down the corridor towards the single door at the end of the hallway.
It seems a little cruel, taking some kid and raising them to think you’re her family so she’ll be cooperative while being studied, poked, and prodded because of her odd magical affinities. However, he supposes that national security researchers have done much worse things than this, and as far as jobs go… well…
— The man looks out of the window towards the hellscape outside.
Maybe it’s for the best that he landed this gig after all. He’s still alive because he’s stationed here, of all places. ‘Job security’ might be a very literal term in this sense.
In that way, the girl is lucky too, isn’t she?
If she was just some normal, boring person who was of no value to scientific research, well… she’d be dead too, right?
The man decides this all checks out and feels decidedly very-not-bad about himself, before returning to his very stressful work of standing perfectly in position in one corridor by himself for another night.
~ [Kirsch ‘Bluetenbaum’] ~
Human, Female, Classless (Child) Location: National Magical Research Institute, Warding Tower Seven, Bedroom LEVEL: 03
With the way she is shivering, it may as well be the dead of winter. She’s never been cold often. Mom always makes sure she’s very well taken care of, and her uncle and his friends are always nice to her. But she’s still scared in a way that an adult mind is not quite able to grasp.
It’s not that she’s exactly afraid of the dark as it is, or of the storm outside, or even of the Demon-King. Yes, she is afraid of all these things, mind you, but her core fear is actually more locked in on what they represent. The unknown.
But it is far more than just the unknown, as it is itself in what an adult would understand of it as a concept. Rather, it is the possibility of endless terrors, of shadows that never stop, and of monsters that the rational mind simply can’t even begin to create. An adult might think of beings with sharp teeth and long legs, based on their understanding of the world. However, the things that Kirsch thinks of beneath her blanket are so far and so abstract from the simplicity of ‘having legs’ and ‘having teeth’ that they simply aren’t describable in a coherent sense.
“Dill,” she says, looking at her doll, whom she had named such. It’s a good name for a doll. Dill the doll. “What do you think?” asks the girl quietly, trying to find an answer to her very undefined question. Is it safe? Are there monsters? What should she do, just sleep? All of these come together to form a question that she just can’t piece together into one phrase. But that’s okay. Her doll knows what she means. Dill is the only one she has to talk to very often, when everyone is busy.
The doll is a raggedy thing with two stumpy legs and two stumpy arms. His eyes are buttons, and his mouth is just a sewn thread that spans from one side of Dill’s squished, spherical head to the other.
She has to be quiet, though, or her uncle will scold her and tell her to go to sleep. Next time, he might close the door.
“It’s scary, isn’t it?” asks a quiet voice from her hands.
Kirsch’s eyes go wide as she stares in surprise at Dill, who had spoken to her. This is, obviously, a very unusual thing for a doll to do.
“You can talk?!” she asks excitedly, holding Dill out at as much of an arm’s length as is possible without leaving the blanket.
Dill nods, the stuffing inside of him crinkling as he moves his floppy head. “I can talk, Kirsch,” says Dill. “Usually I wouldn’t,” explains the doll, looking at the surprised girl. “But I decided that today you’re so scared that I had to.”
“…Wow…” she whispers beneath her breath. Dill nods. “Really?”
“Really,” assures Dill. “We’re best friends, aren’t we?” asks the doll. “I’d never lie to you, Kirsch.” The doll looks around itself at the blanket nest. “You and I are safe in here,” explains the doll. Kirsch nods, listening intently. That’s exactly what she wanted to hear. “The Demon-King is a monster, right?” asks Dill. Kirsch thinks and then nods. He has to be, right? “Well, monsters can’t get under the blanket. Everyone knows that,” explains Dill, lifting a stubby arm to touch her nose. “So we’re safe from him here.”
Kirsch sighs in relief, feeling a load of stress leave her body as she sinks into her mattress.
“— But your mom and uncle aren’t.”
Kirsch’s eyes reopen in horror.
Dill shrugs. His button eyes stare at her in the vague darkness beneath the heavy blanket. “Well, they aren’t beneath a blanket, are they?” asks Dill. “The Demon-King is going to eat them, Kirsch.” The girl squeezes the doll, her body tensing up as a new terror comes through her core. “And then you’re going to be left here all by yourself,” it says. “Well, I’ll be here too, but… you know…”
“What do I do?!” asks Kirsch. “Dill! I don’t want Mom and Uncle to get eaten!”
Dill nods. “I know you don’t, Kirsch,” explains the doll, his threaded smile never shifting an inch. “So that’s why you just have to cover them with blankets too, right?” it suggests, tapping its own head with a stumpy hand. “If you cover everyone with blankets, then the Demon-King can’t get them.”
Kirsch gasps.
This is an amazing idea.
“But how do I do that?” she asks. “They’ll yell at me if I leave my room,” she explains. “And I only have my blanket.”
Dill shakes his head. “Don’t worry about that,” says the doll. “I have a special idea,” he explains. “Get out of bed and take your blanket with you. It will keep us safe while we go!”
Kirsch stares at Dill for a moment, wondering if this all makes sense. She decides that it does and then carefully gets up, keeping her blanket draped over herself and Dill hugged against her heart.
“Are you sure about this, Dill?” asks Kirsch. She can’t see where she’s going through the blanket; only the floor is visible at her feet inside the little bubble.
“I am.” The doll in her clutch giggles. “Cross my heart and hope to die,” he promises.
~ [Shaushka] ~
Elf, Female, Classless Location: The Scorched Forest LEVEL: 04
Nope.
Nothing yet.
Shaushka sits in the mud, the stormwater collecting around her legs as she sits in the middle of the ashy, flooding forest, drenched to the bone.
The elf turns her head, looking to the left. There is nothing there.
Slowly, meanderingly, she blinks and then lets her head drift towards the right, where there is also nothing.
Hmm…
Oh well.
Head empty, eyes full.
She blankly stares off into the distance, allowing life to be whatever it is going to be.
~ [Grand Crusader Vilheim] ~
Human, Female, Crusader Location: The Western Descent LEVEL: 100
They are almost upon the beast.
The storm that never stops howls all around them, as would the roar of an eternally hungering dragon.
Trapped in her box and trapped in her prayers, Vilhelm can only hear the reports of those voices outside and around her, but from what the scouts seem to be reporting, the Demon-King has become stationary near the western magical research facility. It is not a place she cares for, as the dissection of the god’s graceful creations such as magic in such a manner is unholy and in vile taste.
But if it is enough to keep the beast preoccupied until they arrive, then it will have served its grand purpose.
Perhaps that is why the gods have allowed it to exist for so long.
Amazing.
The foresight of their planning is incredible.
Crusader Vilheim continues with her prayers, repenting for having ever stopped.
~ [Kirsch ‘Bluetenbaum’] ~
Human, Female, Classless (Child) Location: National Magical Research Institute, Warding Tower Seven, Research Subject Containment Corridor LEVEL: 03
She steps out into the hallway, fully expecting her uncle to yell at her for getting out of bed and leaving her room.
But the man doesn’t.
“He can’t see us beneath the blanket, Kirsch,” explains Dill quietly.
“Huh? Really?” whispers Kirsch, slowly creeping down along the perfectly straight wall of the hallway that leads right up to the door where the man is always standing. Dill nods. “But how are we going to get past him?”
“He needs a blanket, Kirsch,” explains Dill. “So he’ll be safe from the Demon-King.”
Kirsch nods. This, of course, makes perfect sense. But she doesn’t have a blanket for him. She only has her own, but she needs that herself to keep the two of them safe from the Demon-King.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,” says Dill. She looks down at him as they quietly creep forward. The doll looks up at her from her arms, lifting its stumpy arms up towards her. “Just set me down. I’ll cover him up nice and tight and come right back to you, I promise!”
“But Dill…” she whispers, stopping.
The doll shakes his head. “Don’t worry. It’s safe for me to leave the blanket,” explains Dill. “I’m a doll, Kirsch. Monsters aren’t interested in dolls,” he says, his button eyes wobbling as he tilts his head, his mouth never moving. “They only want to eat little girls and their families, like you.” Kirsch lets out a quiet yelp, covering her mouth with one hand to stop herself.
Dill nods and lifts a hand to her. “I promise that I’ll be right back!” he explains. “I’d never leave you alone, Kirsch.”
Kirsch purses her lips, letting out a quiet, fearful sniffle as she grips Dill’s tiny stump with his not much larger hand, shaking it. After that, she bends down and sets the doll on the floor. The plaything stands on its own two feet, looking down at its body for a second, before wobbling off and out of the blanket that is draped over her.
“…The hel-” begins her uncle, muttering to himself, but never finishing the word. There’s a soft, quiet thud, and he says nothing else.
Kirsch stands there, her arms holding the blanket over herself, draped a little, so she has some space. It’s quiet. Nothing happens.
“…Dill?” she whispers.
No response.
Kirsch gulps.
“Dill?” she repeats.
— A small arm lifts the bottom of the blanket and comes back inside. “Here I am, Kirsch!” explains the doll, lifting his arms for her to pick him back up. “You did a very good job waiting here,” he says. “Thank you for being so brave.”
Kirsch nods, sniffling, and picks him up. “Did you give Uncle a blanket?”
“I did,” replies Dill. “See?” he asks, pulling in a piece of fabric from outside down to her feet. “He’s hiding in here.”
“Uncle?” asks Kirsch, raising her voice a little.
“Shh!” hushes Dill, lifting a stump arm to her mouth. “Don’t wake him up. He’s asleep.”
“He is?” asks Kirsch, looking at the doll, who nods to her.
The doll playfully kicks with its legs, tilting its head from side to side. “You know how hard your uncle works,” he explains. “He’s always awake to keep you safe at night, Kirsch,” says Dill. “He’s never had a blanket before, so he fell straight to sleep!” he assures.
Kirsch looks at him and then at the fabric touching her foot.
That makes sense.
Dill holds up a jangling key for her to take.
“Where did you get the blanket for him, Dill?” she asks, taking the key to the door out of the corridor.
“Oh, that?” asks Dill, kicking his legs playfully. He’s quiet for a moment as she unlocks the door, which leads out to a stairwell. “Well, your uncle is a guard for his work, you know?” asks the doll. She nods. “Guards are like soldiers, right?” Kirsch nods again. They are, aren’t they? “Well all soldiers have blankets,” he explains. “So your uncle, as a guard, had a blanket of his own too! It’s just that your uncle was always sooo busy, he never had a chance to use it before now.”
Kirsch lets out a long sound of realization. “I’m glad you’re here with me tonight, Dill,” she says. “I’m really not sure what I would have done without you.”
Dill puts a stumpy hand on her arm. “I’m not sure either, Kirsch,” he says, as they head down the staircase under the protective cover of the Demon-King repelling blanket.
~ [Magnolien Bluetenbaum] ~
Human, Female, Prime Sorceress (Arcane) Title: Head Warding Researcher of the National Magical Research Institute Location: National Magical Research Institute, Warding Tower Seven, Underground Research Facility LEVEL: 90
Fascinating.
Absolutely fascinating.
Magnolien stares into the array of energetic fields coming together from a series of crystal prisms. Scryers shuffle around, adjusting everything on the go as they try to fine tune the image they project into the center of the construction. It’s a visualization apparatus. Usually, scryers, as arcane casters, are able to view things that are far away. With this experimental device, they’re able to create a poor but still sustainable image that can be shown to other people. It’s one of a kind and still highly experimental.
“We can’t adapt it any further,” says a woman on the side.
“Use the blood,” replies Magnolien. The researcher nods and goes to a cabinet, pulling out a small glass vial, one of dozens.
The girl’s blood has very interesting properties, the endless uses of which they haven’t even begun fully exploring. She seems to be one of those odd souls in the world who are born with a unique adaptation. In her case, she seems to possess particularly latent arcane magics, which have allowed the creature to fall under her dominion, much to the envy of the other towers.
Such prodigies are rare. The odds of finding one before they become renowned within the borders of their own nation and then extracting them without social fallout are slim.
The researcher pours some of the blood into a sigil, carved in the floor. The small channels, barely a whisper thick, shine red as the blood is poured into a small groove and begins to flow around them.
Magnolien lifts her gaze, looking at the red blob that comes into sight.
“Maggy, look at it!” says her colleague, Adams, grabbing her arm and shaking her. “It’s amazing! Could you imagine what we could do if we could just…” He looks at the red shape coming into focus. Wild, chaotic magics cascade out from all around it, as if they were looking into the heart of god. “- If we could capture it?”
“I appreciate your enthusiasm, Adams,” replies Magnolien, looking at the near perfect image of the Demon-King, coming into focus in the center of the construction. “But I don’t think we’re going to capture the Demon-King,” she replies. “He’s sieging us, if you’ve forgotten.”
“Is he, though?” asks Adams. He points at the vision. “Maggy, he hasn’t moved for a day and a half. There have been no attacks or testing of the perimeter. He’s just…” The two of them look at the image of the man sitting on his throne. “- Sitting there.”
She looks at the creature. It’s just… fascinating.
“Are you sketching this?” she asks, turning her head. The lab artist nods, his pen feverishly sketching as he works to perfectly capture the image of the Demon-King, sitting on his throne in intricate detail. “What’s he doing?” she asks, narrowing her eyes. “Look at the magic,” she adds, lifting a hand to point at the project image. Souls stream in and out all around him, tying him in place as if he were a great spider, sitting in the center of a web made out of screams. “This isn’t just ambient magic; it’s active.”
Adams checks his papers. “The numbers confirm that he’s channeling a spell,” he replies. “But why?” he shakes his head. “What could he possibly be using his magic for if he’s just sitting on his throne?” The man scratches his head. “Maybe it’s just a quirk of advanced demon-hood?” he considers. “Full flow has been observed in other minor demonic specimens to date.”
“Maybe…” replies Magnolien. “Or maybe he’s prodding our defenses. With that kind of magical power, he doesn’t need to get up and touch our walls. He can just do it from there.” She taps the counter. “What’s the theory on the color?” she asks.
“The red?” asks Adams. “He’s a demon, Maggy. Demons are red.”
“No, not him,” she replies. “Look.” Magnolien grabs a stick that is often used as a pointer, holding it into the projection to point out a blurry blob that is hovering close to their field of view. “This one. Why is this one soul over here red and stationary?” she asks.
Adams stares for a time and then looks over to the scryers. “Context?”
The head-scryer looks over and shrugs. The vision shifts away from the Demon-King and turns to look at the red orb just next to itself. “It appears to be a…” The man narrows his eyes. “It’s not a soul; it’s another scrying orb, sir,” he replies. “It looks just like our own, except it’s red.”
“What?” asks Adams. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would the Demon-King copy our scrying orb?”
“To scry, Adams,” replies Head Warding Researcher of the National Magical Research Institute Magnolien. She looks at the entity sitting on its throne, and she can’t help but wonder as it stares into the orb hovering in its throne-room, if it isn’t staring right back at her this very second.
It’s incredible. It’s just so amazingly fascinating. It feels like she’s a hunter, staring into the eyes of the king of beasts.
“He couldn’t get past the institute’s walls, so he made his way inside using our own methods,” she explains, realizing. “He perfectly copied our scrying technique, Adams.”
“What?”
Magnolien looks around. “Adams. He’s in here with us right now.”
Adams thinks for a moment and then takes some notes, apparently calming himself down after that bold statement. “Well… while unnerving, scrying at least limits him to just watching us without any sort of direct connection.” The man shrugs. “I’d rather the Demon-King didn’t watch when I take my bathroom break, but I suppose this is the world we live in.”
Magnolien stares for a while, unsure.
Why would the Demon-King be wasting his time just sitting outside of the facility and then undergoing the useless act of spying on the interior of a castle he can’t breach either way? Having inside information is only useful if you actually have any reasonable way of getting inside to begin with.
“Get me those numbers from before, Adams,” she says, remembering the calculation Adams had shown her when she arrived in the lab.
“Sure thing,” replies the man, jogging down the rows of tables to pick up the lone sheet of paper that had been left behind.
Magnolien stares in awe at the creature. What is he doing? What is he thinking? Can he think? Is his mind clear like a person’s? Or is he more like an animal? Is his body biological, or is it ethereal, like a spirit’s? Can he reason? Can he communicate? If the Demon-King is such a powerful force with the attribute of ‘dark’, then surely he could be… transformed into something else, or? A power for ‘arcane’ magic, perhaps? She needs to know more.
“Adams!” she snaps, turning her head around, still waiting for those numbers.
Adams is standing by the table, the paper in his hand, before looking back up at Magnolien with a pale face. “Maggy,” says Adams, lifting the page to show it from a distance. “There’s a problem…”
Her eyes go wide as she sees, even from a distance, that something has drastically changed with the calculation that was made before.
Head researcher Magnolien turns to the scryers. “EVACUATE THE TOWER!” she orders without another moment’s hesitation. Magnolien hobbles over to a wall, breaking a crystal that is embedded in a piping structure.
All of the flames in the whole facility turn a bright green as the dust of the broken crystal is carried through a complicated array of tubes and pipes. Doors begin to slam and people run around up on the walkways as they follow the evacuation protocol, heading to the central facility through the underground passages that all towers have.
“CUT THE PROJECTION!” she yells.
“Ma’am,” starts the head-scryer, lifting her hands.
Magnolien kicks the nearest tower of the scrying apparatus over, the expensive glass shattering into a thousand pieces. The image of the Demon-King dies out.
“This is a complete overreaction!” argues the head-scryer. “I understand your panic, given the situation, but scrying is a one way procedure. It’s impossible for the Demon-King to do anything other than watch us.”
“— Unless he has a connection,” replies Magnolien, looking down at the grooves in the floor.
The girl’s blood.
They had used it to amplify their own signal, not just this time but plenty of other times before this scrying. It was already in the channels when they started the projection the first time; dried, crusted flakes of old blood enhanced the original signal that went to spy on the Demon-King and he had caught a whiff of that like a shark in the water. He followed the magical connection all the way back, going right through their defenses.
The head-scryer, catching on now as she follows Magnolien’s gaze, runs off to join the evacuation without another word.
The Demon-King isn’t scrying to look into the facility.
He’s scrying to get into the facility, and he’s managed.
He’s connected to her, the girl, Kirsch. He had gotten inside; his magic had already been working in secret this entire time, from the very moment they started to watch him. It wasn’t a weakness that had allowed them to view him.
– It was an opening made to let them in like mice into a trap.
“ADAMS!” she yells as Adams runs over to her, holding the piece of paper in his hands. It had once contained a complicated calculation, but now, the runny ink on the page has dripped and shifted, moving as if a ghostly hand had been forcing it to rearrange itself into words that are coherent and smooth and almost mocking in their tone.
The Possession
An obsession consumes the heart of Magnolien,
As would a rot consume a tree of such the same supple bark,
She will watch, transfixed, ad nauseum,
As the Demon-King sits there – a lark,
And all the while in secret,
While her eyes are lost in the wrong place,
Will whisper and howl a voice in the halls of the crypt of which she herself is keeper,
— A secret girl, who can not dare to show her own face,
Magnolien, as she, too, will become a possession,
A thing, from the world withheld and with no place,
Except for suffocation and endless expression,
As the fabrics of entrapment constrict her screaming, never quieting face,
But no one will hear.
“Mom?” asks a voice from next to her.
Magnolien looks to the side, staring at absolutely nothing except for a little stuffed doll that stands there with button eyes, looking her way with a wide, shoddily sewn smile on its face.
“Mom. We need to hide from the Demon-King, okay?” asks Kirsch’s voice.
~ [Kirsch ‘Bluetenbaum’] ~
Human, Female, Classless (Child) Location: National Magical Research Institute, Warding Tower Seven, Underground Research Facility LEVEL: 03
There is a thud.
Then there is another one.
Kirsch stands there, waiting, holding the blanket over herself to keep herself safe from the Demon-King. It was really hard and really scary, walking all of this way. But Dill helped her.
— The doll comes back into the blanket.
“Great job, Kirsch!” says Dill. “We did it!”
Kirsch lights up. “Really?”
“Mhm!” replies Dill. “See?” it asks, pulling in a slight piece of fabric beneath her blanket. “Your mom and her friend are hiding under blankets now too,” explains the doll. “You did it! You saved everybody from the Demon-King!” says Dill, grabbing the edges of the blanket and pulling them together inward around her feet.
“Thank you, Dill,” she says, picking the doll up and looking at it. “You’re my best friend; I won’t ever-ever forget this!”
“I know,” says Dill, lifting a stubby arm to touch her nose.
— The doll’s head falls limp, his arm dropping down and not moving anymore.
“Dill?” asks Kirsch. She shakes him. The doll flops around as she would expect any old doll to do. “Dill?”
Something tugs at her feet.
Kirsch looks down at the bottom of the blanket draped around herself, the bottom of which had been dragging over the floor this whole time. The loose fabric has now instead tightened itself together, sliding down beneath her feet. Kirsch lifts a leg, looking at the fabric.
It has sealed itself together, the fabric fully growing in over itself and trapping her inside.
Kirsch screams and falls over, trying to fight her way out of the blanket. But there is no way out. She’s as perfectly snug as a bug in a rug.
~ [The Demon-King] ~
He sits on his throne, watching as the cocoons all lie there, squirming on the ground, crawling around, and flopping like pupae on the stones. Their insides are filled with screams and meat, but from the outside, nobody would ever expect the horrors of the things contained therein. He uses his magic to hang them up on the ceiling, as if they were butterflies to be.
It’s oddly beautiful, isn’t it?
It’s perfectly true that monsters can’t get you if you’re under a blanket.
Even as the horrible Demon-King, he finds himself honor bound to follow that codex. Memories return to him of a boy who would hide beneath his own blankets during violence in his mostly forgotten home.
— But nobody ever said anything about the blanket not being able to get you.
The magical defenses of the tower collapse as anarchy breaks loose inside of it. The demon-sickness makes its way through the halls, killing hundreds.
And as for those things on the ceiling, those fabric prisons that are stuck up on high, they leak with ample wet as their contents melt into a sludge that drips through and drops down to the ground below.
Is he a monster?
Yes.
If any claim to the word exists, then it is his to make.
But he does not oversee the irony of what he has done. The betrayal of trust. The manipulation of a person’s particular gift to achieve his own desired, selfish outcome. He is, in essence, exactly what she was when he was forced to become this… thing. He is no better. He is a beast, ugly in the truest sense of the word.
However, there is still one difference between him and her.
The hands that he grips, he will never, ever let go of.
(Swain) has used: [Horrific Resurrection]
One of the cocoons on the ceiling, dripping red with blood, begins to squirm as something reforms itself inside of its concealing veil.
~ [Grand Crusader Vilheim] ~
Human, Female, Crusader Location: Just East of the National Magical Research Institute LEVEL: 100
“Arrival!” calls a voice at the front of the line.
It travels down the rows and rows of thousands of soldiers of the crusade, repeating itself over and over as the Demon-King’s carnival has come into sight. They’ve made it after days of restless haste.
She can not say for sure what it looks like on the outside, or what there is to see, as she is still trapped in her box. But she can only assume that it must be quite the spectacle, given the mutterings of the soldiers all around her.
The onslaught begins.
Her crate moves again as they march towards the sickening enemy of the gods and their creations, a beast so horrific and unimaginable, that it is revolting to think about it even existing. She does her best not to, so that she does not defile her crate with the bile of her empty gut that is close to purging.
— The Demon-King…
~ [The Demon-King] ~
Swain holds the gore-stained doll in his hand, shaking it from side to side. Viscera leeks from its soaked through fluff.
The dead-eyed girl stares up from the bottom of his throne up towards him as he presses its stomach in, making a squeaking noise. She looks at him through the blanket she’s still wearing, with holes that have seemingly been cut out for eyes as if she were playing a ghost.
The ground at her feet collects with bubbling blood, as it never stops running out from inside of her ‘costume’.
“Who are you?” she asks, looking around herself.
The Demon-King looks down at her, holding out the doll for her to take. She grabs it, looks at it, and then looks back up at him with glassy eyes.
“A friend,” replies the Demon-King, leaning back on his throne as thousands of souls pour into his maw. “Cartouche,” he turns his head. “Continue the march to the north,” he orders. “We’re done here.”
“Yes,” replies Cartouche and then vanishes.
“I’m not allowed to have friends,” replies Kirsche, or at least whatever she is now does.
He looks down at her, his head resting on his massive fist. “You are now,” answers the Demon-King, looking at her. “By royal decree,” he says, waving a hand.
The doll in her hands comes back to life and holds up its arms, looking at her.
Kirsch hugs it, squeezing the warm blood out of it as if it were a sponge, all of it leaking down together at her feet in a puddle of magical blood that just seems to grow larger and larger forever, wet dripping from the bedding.
