Demon Core - Chapter 13: The questionable happenings present within the Demon-King's castle

Chapter 13: The questionable happenings present within the Demon-King’s castle

~ [Crusader Manilpin] ~

Dark-Elf, Male, Grand Crusader Location: The Demon-King’s Castle, Floor Twelve Level: 86

“Don’t look down!” calls a voice from up ahead, the command being passed on down the line of crusaders from front to back.

Following the directive, Manilpin keeps a steady gaze as they walk, marching through the Demon-King’s castle. He wrings out his wet hair with one hand, balancing the flat, wide thing that he is holding above his head with the other for a moment. Floors one to eleven, while disturbing in many ways, posed little challenge to the assault, given the presence of the divinely-chosen river-sorceress to lead their way. However, from here on out, they’ve returned to the metaphorical wild-lands, with nothing but their faith and spirits to guide them, as well as the warm vapors of their breaths that leak out of their mouths.

Despite the incredible heat present within the rest of the castle, floor twelve is cold. It’s bearable without real winter-gear for a time, but he wouldn’t want to stay here for a long time.

He walks, his hand resting on his belt with his thumb-looped through it as he walks, looking around everywhere but down.

Floor twelve of the Demon-King’s castle is, from what he can see, a strange place. It’s a cold, cavernous thing. There seems to be icy water present all around them, and they’re walking on some sort of bridge that he isn’t able to examine as it would be breaking orders.

So instead, he simply walks onward.

He has always been a man of faith, but if anyone had told him weeks ago that this is where he’d be, he’d wonder if they weren’t pulling his leg.

Life can change so fast, can’t it?

A person often finds themselves moving from one phase to the next, and often, when living in this newest phase, the old days of those old phases are nothing but vague memories that feel like they belong to some other person.

~ [Byblos] ~

Gallu, Female, Spirit Cook Location: The Demon-King’s Castle, Demon-Quarters, Kitchen Level: 85

Byblos stands in the kitchen, holding a soul by its tail. The squiggly, wormy thing flops around like a fish, trying to escape her grasp, a face pressing itself through the exterior body of the incorporeal entity like a head trying to push through a pillowcase.

She sniffs it and then holds it down against the counter with one hand, fingers spread wide along its body to keep it in place, as she reaches over with her other hand and takes a sharp, black knife and runs it along the length of the soul from top to bottom, cutting it open like a fish she intends to gut.

It rips open like an overstuffed plush, the edge of its head and tail flailing around beneath her grasp as she sets the knife down and reaches inside of it, grabbing a fistful of its core and tearing it out, placing the contents into a bowl.

Cooking with souls is still a very experimental process. She’s still in the process of figuring out which pieces are good and which aren’t. Can you eat the skin? Or do you eat the insides? Is all of the interior the same, or are there different sections, like there would be different cuts of meat on a swine? How does the ‘meat’ of a soul react to heat? To water? How does it react to salting and smoking?

It’s still all a great mystery, and it’s fantastic that she can just experiment to her heart’s content.

She runs the knife over the top of the soul again, slicing off some of its skin as it flops around in her grasp, cutting off a sliver of its soft, blueish white mass that she drops into her mouth, as if she had peeled a piece of flesh off of a juicy, red apple.

Curiously, she moves it around in her mouth, slowly sliding her tongue around it to try and catch the many different flavors it gives off. The cook works her teeth, chewing very tenderly, to try and get a feel for the density, texture, and mouthfeel of a raw soul. It’s warm, sweet. Interestingly, she can feel the same warmth coming from the writhing, squishy thing that she has held beneath her fingers. It’s wiggling and pressing against her at the same time as she chews, and she isn’t sure if it’s responding to her active eating of its body right now or if it’s just trying to escape in general.

Byblos takes the knife, holding the cut open soul steady, before then chopping down with a firm, strong motion that takes off the fattest, bulbous part of the entity, which she presumes to be the ‘head’ of the thing.

Interested, she watches as it finally stops moving, now that it has been cut apart.

Fascinatingly enough, the piece of it that she has in her mouth changes, crumbling into dust as the soul in her hands ‘dies’ at the same time. The interior bits that she had set aside just before also crumble away.

Making a disgusted face, Byblos grabs a kitchen towel and holds it against her mouth as she spits out the piece of wet soul into it, looking at the sticky, goopy mess it has become for a moment, before discarding the whole thing.

It seems that souls need to be eaten fresh, as fresh as can be. Ideally, they need to be alive for at least the entire process of eating, so the meat doesn’t spoil in one’s mouth.

Very interesting.

She reaches up into the air, grabbing hold of another one, catching it by its tail, and then lowers the whole soul down towards herself, craning her neck back as she moves the squirming, off-white thing down towards her open mouth and extended, spit-covered tongue.

“Byblos?” asks a voice from the side.

Byblos looks out of the side of her eyes and then turns her head as she looks at Cartouche, the dancer. “He wants to see you,” says the dancer.

Byblos nods and then lets go of the soul, letting it fly back to the rest of them, darting around the room in a swarm, like a panicked school of fish that are trapped in a basin with nowhere to go.

She’ll continue her experiments later.

~ [The Demon-King] ~

The Demon-King sits upon his throne, leaning back and waiting. A scorched, wilted, red flower is in his gigantic hand, brought to him by a spirit at his request. The human onslaught continues against his castle, pressing against him like the waves of the ocean, constantly crashing against the shore. While the initial group of encroachers was easily defeated, these new-comers are far more coordinated and are led by the last two survivors of the first party.

— This latter problem may be due to his own generosity, but it does not change the fact that it is going to make his life more difficult. But that is the game to be played in life. A raw pragmatic would have simply disposed of them and been done with it, but his heart aches for the soul of the first person who would dare to curse him with such a burdensome title. No. Comedy and tragedy are a duo; they intermingle, weaving in and out of one another like star-crossed lovers.

The heart of the horrific Demon-King is that of a romantic who is illogical and full of childish poesy.

Byblos appears before him and kneels down before the throne. Swain lowers his gaze, his dozens of eyes looking at the demon.

“Byblos,” says the Demon-King. “Tell me,” starts Swain. “I have need of your expertise,” says the entity, lifting a massive hand, inside of which is held the crumpled flower. “What is it that causes a thing to be nothing like we once remembered it being?” he asks, looking at the dead petals that he holds. “The tastes of youth, the smells of springs past… I find that, in my attempts to replicate them, I am always a step further away than I was prior.” The Demon-King’s eyes shift, all of them looking at the flower. He knows this sort. It is the kind that she always smelled like.

Byblos lifts her gaze, looking at the flower and then at him. “Tastes change as we get older,” explains the cook. “Children enjoy sweet things,” she says. “As a person grows, their palate adapts, and they often find stronger affinities towards bitterness,” explains the cook.

Swain’s many eyes turn towards her. “But why?” he asks. “What happens to make us change like this?” The Demon-King closes his fingers, crushing the flower with a strong grip. Smoke drifts out of the gaps between his fingers.

“Sweetness is sickening after a while,” says Byblos. “Young or old, it will inevitably lead to a sense of revulsion in some form.” She rises to her feet and holds out a hand. Swain looks at her and then lifts his fist, letting the ashy powder from the blossom fall down into her cupped palm. The demon takes her other hand, sticks her thumb fully into her mouth, and then presses the wet digit into the heap of powder in her open palm, clumping it all together into a flat ball of flower-ash and spittle. Byblos presses the lump flat into a disc and then holds it in the hot, quivering air that fills the core chamber, allowing it to bake on her skin. “So, as we age, in our hunt for stimulation, we find ourselves chasing curious tastes that, in our younger years, we would have found…” She looks at him. A smell of blackened rose and char fills the air around him, painting the air with a smell that causes his many eyes to go wide and the dance of souls up in the super-heated air to come to a slow, all of them moving towards the source that she holds — a token that somehow captures not the memory of that old spring, but rather, the true feeling that he now, in this moment, holds of it. “- Questionable.”

A mouth opens on the side of his body, and she moves her hand forward past the many rows of teeth and places it inside, pulling her hand back out as it starts to seal around her. The demon looks up, towards his many eyes.

Questionable indeed.

~ [Ruhr the River-Sorceress] ~

Human Half-Elf, Female, Sorceress Rank: SSS Location: The Demon-King’s Castle, Floor Twelve Level: 96

Ruhr walks onward, leading the charge next to Zacarias. This is all really strange for her. She’s never felt as open to anyone as she has to him. But then again, being a second away from death for a straight week on end will do that to you. One’s life clock seems to tick much faster than usual, when the striking of the hands sounds like a set of gnashing teeth closing with every passing second.

Putting all that to the side for a moment, however, Ruhr can’t help but notice something weird about herself.

“Fiddle-whacker,” mutters Ruhr beneath her breath, staring absolutely straight ahead as she walks. Looking down or up on this floor is a very bad idea. She learned as much from the first man who fell into the water. “Foofoo-fluffer,” says the half-elf.

“You good?” asks Zacarias.

Ruhr looks at him from the corners of her eyes. “Biddle-bopper,” says Ruhr.

Zacarias doesn’t turn his head, but she can see him lift an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

“Something’s wrong with me, Zac,” says Ruhr. “It sounds dumb but… I can’t, you know.”

“No, what?” he asks.

“I can’t swear anymore,” says Ruhr. “Kitty-clapper.”

“Cute,” says Zacarias, shrugging and getting elbowed in his side for his efforts, which doesn’t actually bother him at all given that he’s wearing armor. But it’s really about the message. “Wait. Really?”

“Really, Zac,” says Ruhr. “I swear, I’m not messing with you. I want to say f—” Ruhr bites her tongue. “Fff—” She winces. “- Fanny-flicker.” Zacarias grunts, holding down a chuckle. “But I can’t get myself to say it.”

He shakes his head. “I’ve seen something like this before,” he explains.

“You have?”

“Sure,” explains Zacarias. “Trauma can do really strange things to the body. It’s almost like magic.” Ruhr nods, listening. “I was with a troop of soldiers once to help them clear out a goblin camp,” says the guardsman. “Things went south for a bit and one of them had a really, really bad time,” he says. “After we finished and got out, that guy would literally scream if you wore green clothes around him.” He shakes his head. “Even a year later, the last time I saw him. He got it a bit under control, but you could see him start shaking, like he was freezing to death.” He taps his head. “Think about all of the swearing you’ve done here already. Your body probably shut it down.”

“You think?” asks Ruhr. That does make sense. While she is hardly a person who would admit to being traumatized, as it would be devastating for her brand. It’s certainly a good explanation.

“I’m sure,” replies Zacarias. “When this is all over and you’ve been back in the fresh air for a few weeks, I won’t be able to tell you apart from a sailor.”

Ruhr sighs in relief, staring straight ahead, the reflecting water all around her shimmering.

— Something behind them splashes as somebody falls in.

“Eyes forward!” barks Zacarias. “Keep moving,” he says, giving the order to leave whoever fell into the water.

They can’t be saved. It’s already over for them.

She’s glad he’s here. She won’t say it, of course. It’ll go to his head, and the gods know that Zacarias’ ego is big enough, that pompous slime-smoocher, but she really is.

~ [Crusader Manilpin] ~

Dark-Elf, Male, Grand Crusader Location: The Demon-King’s Castle, Floor Twelve Level: 86

Manilpin walks with his hands above his head.

How long is this weird floor going to go on for?

It feels like they’ve been walking for hours now, which, sure, is fair enough. The Demon-King’s castle is probably a big place, but shouldn’t they have been at least in the next room by now?

The dark-elf rolls his shoulders, holding the thing above his head as he walks.

“Eyes forward!” comes the call from the front of the line, echoing its way down as everyone repeats it, passing the message on down the formation.

“Eyes forward,” repeats Manilpin. But he notices something off about his voice. The man clears his throat, repeating the message, blinking in confusion. It’s odd. His voice sounds… muffled? He clears his throat, trying again.

~ [Ruhr the River-Sorceress] ~

Human Half-Elf, Female, Sorceress Rank: SSS Location: The Demon-King’s Castle, Floor Twelve Level: 96

“So what do you think happens to them, Zac?” asks Ruhr, nodding her head to the side but not averting her gaze towards the reflective water. If you look at it, you’ll fall inside, and then that’s a wrap.

“Hell if I know,” replies Zacarias. “I don’t really want to think about it.”

Ruhr nods. “…Yeah,” replies the half-elf, walking. “Hey, Zac?” she asks.

“Yeah?” asks the man.

They walk for a while longer, the platforms under their boots clacking as they step against a bridge of smooth, flat surfaces suspended in the water. “If I get caught in some… wibbly-wobbly Demon-King magic, promise you’ll take care of it,” she says. “I’d rather be dead for sure than whatever that ends up being.”

“I promise,” replies Zacarias. “And then, after I avenge you and get out of here, I’ll tell everyone you died heroically in a fight with the Demon-King.”

Ruhr smiles. “You’re a great friend, Zac,” says Ruhr. “But it’s cute that you think you have a chance to kill the Demon-King without me,” she explains. “I’m the star here, don’t forget.”

“That seems like a lot to say when there are a few hundred people literally right behind you,” remarks Zacarias. “You don’t think any of them have a shot?”

“Mhm,” replies Ruhr. “And if you could pick any of us, who would it be?” she asks.

“It seems like an unfair question,” remarks Zacarias. “I don’t know any of them.”

Ruhr sighs. “Just trying to get my mind off of things, I guess,” remarks Ruhr.

“Yeah…” says Zacarias, his metal boots clacking against smooth glass.

~ [Crusader Manilpin] ~

Dark-Elf, Male, Grand Crusader Location: The Demon-King’s Castle, Floor Twelve Level: 86

The dark-elf opens his mouth, trying to talk. Words don’t come out.

Bubbles do.

He stops, expecting the man in the formation behind him to bump into him. But nobody does. The man in front of him stops too, and Manilpin, breaking the rule, looks around himself in confusion. He looks up at the thing that he’s been holding above his head. Now that he thinks about it, he’s not really sure why. He doesn’t even know what the hell he’s holding.

The crusader stares at the long, rectangular mirror that he’s holding aloft above his head. His own mirror image stares down at him. He looks forward at the man in front of him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

— He feels a hand on his own shoulder from behind.

Manipin screams in surprise, dropping the mirror that he was holding above his head, the mirror that was acting as a piece of the bridge that the people above him were walking over. A man, standing above him, tries to scream in surprise as he sinks down, falling on top of him.

The reflective mirror that he had been holding drifts down through the water that he’s in, falling down towards the murk below, and he lowers his gaze, looking down beneath himself.

There, down further below him, are an infinite number of reflections of himself, each of them holding a rectangular mirror of their own above their heads to hold the one above them aloft, and, as exactly he did with his own, each of them screams in surprise and throws their own mirror away, causing the tower of copies of himself to collapse, all of them having nothing else left to stand on as the one below them yanks a mirror away.

All around him, hundreds of copies swim and flail in terror, mirrors colliding with one another and with frantic clones, breaking into thousands of shards from the anarchy that fills the water as they all swim and kick and fight, pulling on ankles and yanking each other down in an attempt to swim back towards the surface faster, now that they’ve realized the situation that they’re in. However, in the frenzy and the desperation, the water is filled with muffled screams. Broken shards of infinite mirrors drift through the water, entering into eyes and open mouths, cutting skin, gums, and flesh. The copies grab and latch onto each other, stabbing and impaling one another in their desperation to not drown, plunging shards of broken mirror-glass into themselves by the fistfuls in their futile struggle.

And in the end, all that is left is a pool full of red water and an expanse of punctured bodies that are more jagged glass than flesh.

A broken image of a man, copied a thousand times over and then a thousand times more, all of them left with nothing to do but to sink endlessly in the bloodied water forever, incapable of reaching the surface that seems so close as none of them ever stop dragging the other back down with every attempt to ascend in their desires to escape themselves, is all that remains and it is what remains forevermore, trapped, within the abyss.

~ [Ruhr the River-Sorceress] ~

Human Half-Elf, Female, Sorceress Rank: SSS Location: The Demon-King’s Castle, Floor Twelve Level: 96

“Pinky-dipper,” mutters Ruhr, as she walks over the surface of ‘water’, made entirely out of tiny mirrors, ebbing and rising like the body of the ocean. But despite feeling like they should sink into it, they never do.

As long as they don’t look.

The first man to enter the room, a dark-elf, made the mistake of looking down into his reflection, and he immediately fell through the water.

Gods knows what happened to him.

But she’s glad that, whatever it was, if it happened to her, someone would put her out of her misery.

There’s a real, inexplicable, spiritual warmth in that fact.

“Bean-bumper,” mutters the half-elf, trying to get herself to say a real, meaty swear again. But her subconscious mind just doesn’t seem to want to comply. There probably really is something to all that junk Zacarias was talking about.

“Ooh, I’m sure the Demon-King is shaking in his boots right now,” jokes Zacarias.

“Shut up, Zac,” sighs Ruhr, looking ahead towards what looks like the exit to the floor just ahead and doing her best to ignore the splashing from behind, as some others clearly tried to look into the water. “Eyes forward!” she yells, listening to the satisfying sound of her order being repeated by the others walking behind her, where they belong.

~ [Seaman Minani-ni] ~

Vildt (Feline), Male, Master Sailor Location: High-seas of the great eastern ocean, The Abigalia Level: 76

Countless souls have vanished into the brink. Thousands of screams never reached a single ear, as they were drowned beneath the crushing rain and the waves of just as equal pressure. Minani-ni doesn’t know how many ships vanished into the waters of the ocean, as the storm obscures his line of sight. But one thing is for sure, the number of lights in the darkness is considerably lower than it was before.

The Abigalia, his own ship, is in poor shape but is in far better shape than any of those that have been lost to the sea.

He stares out over toward the horizon as the ship crests another wave, rising and falling like a sparrow, flying through the air in a gale. However, his eyes fail to find anything in the distance except for a darkness that never seems to come to an end.

~ [Zacarias] ~

Human, Male, Royal Guardsman Location: The Demon-King’s Castle, Floor Thirteen Level: 91

“Floor thirteen,” says Zacarias, looking around. “An unlucky number,” says the man, watching the area as he hobbles onward without much of a complaint, despite his leg hurting a bit. He carries his shield at his side. It’s important for the morale of the people marching behind him that he keeps on going with good, strong form.

“Didn’t take you for the superstitious type, Ziddle-fiddle,” says Ruhr.

He looks at her. “Was that a new nickname for me, or are you trying to swear again?”

The woman swipes a strand of hair out of her face with a theatrical flick. “Take your pick,” she says as she keeps walking.

The room from before was a disaster in its own right, but not as bad as some of the others. Although he isn’t quite sure, as he himself didn’t really partake in the bad sides of it. He’s become very wary of every step there is to take within this castle. He points to the sides. “Spread out,” says Zacarias. “One left, one right,” he says. The order gets passed along, and as the crusaders file into the next chamber, they split apart, filling the room, which is itself plain.

Icy, crystalline formations protrude out of the ground in the shape of many large spires, reaching up towards the ceiling as if they were great, fallen pillars of some old, forgotten temple.

~ [Slime] ~

Slime Location: The Big-Big Green Level: 03

The slime hops through the Big-Big Green, which is the name of a nearby forest, or at least that’s its name in the language of slimes.

It hops onward, hungrily, determined to reach the far west, where it hopes to find the largest butterfly ever to eat. Why does it hope this? Because that is what a slime has to hope for. It does not understand the context of crises, or Demon-Kings or such things. It knows only hunger, together with a few other vague concepts.

— Something scampers over some dry leaves, the soft vibrations getting the slime’s attention. Its one yellow eye, formed together out of a mass of complex bio-material in its insides, shoots to the side to observe the rabbit.

FOOD!

The little slime hops with feverish, killer intent, flying through the air like a soft, wiggly-jiggly arrow, intent to bring death unto its recipient.

(Slime) has begun consuming (Rabbit)

The rabbit screams, as rabbits that are being eaten tend to do. But the slime doesn’t hear this; it does not have ears. Rather, it feels the vibrations of the sharp teeth inside of itself, trying to gnaw and chew their way out of its mass. However, this mistake is one that all prey makes.

Little slimes often have difficulty eating through thick hides and heavy furs, but what they are exceptionally good at — soft tissue — is readily made accessible to them whenever they trap a critter.

It presses itself down the rabbit’s throat, filling the flopping, flailing creature with acidic goo as it eats it from the inside out, starting with the soft tissue and then moving to the bones and the organs, until after a minute, nothing is left on the floor of the forest except for what looks like a perfectly deflated, wet rabbit skin. There isn’t a drop of meat, gristle, or tissue left apart from that.

Content, the slime, somewhat larger than before, slips out through the empty eye sockets of the dead rabbit and then, fully collecting itself back into shape, continues hopping westward on its grand adventure.

~ [Chief Grul] ~

Goblin, Male, Fighter Location: The South-East Level: 48

“What is the demon?” asks one of his tribesmen. “How are we going to kill it?”

Grul turns his head, looking at the goblin who had asked the question. “I do not know,” replies the goblin-chief. They’ve made camp for a few hours and are resting from the storm beneath an overhang. They’ve set up several rocks to protect their fire, which the winds seem intent on trying to blow out no matter the impossibility of the angle or the strength of the blaze. He can’t help but feel as if it itself were possessed by the demon-spirit. “As with any hunt, we will find out when we arrive,” explains Grul. He looks toward the north-west. “Goblins do not fear demons.”

~ [Zacarias] ~

Human, Male, Royal Guardsman Location: The Demon-King’s Castle, Floor Thirteen Level: 91

The crusader screams in terror at the image of the demon that has appeared before him, striking at it with his blade, which the monster blocks with its forearm.

“Ruhr!” calls Zacarias, lifting his shield. But his voice, while resonating all around the glossy chamber, is lost amongst the sounds of hundreds of screams and the clashing of metal against teeth and bones.

An onslaught of monsters came charging out of the cracks and crevices, lunging towards them from every facade of the room. Hundreds of them. Creatures with long, gangly arms that are covered in red, leathery skin, with teeth so large their mouths fail to close, and with nails that drag along the ice behind them, leaving deep scars in it as they move.

Zacarias braces his shield forward, feeling something heavy slam against it.

The Demon-King doesn’t usually field waves of monsters within his own castle, or at least he hasn’t until now. Maybe it’s time.

The man presses back, knocking whatever is on the other side of his shield away.

Or maybe something’s up.

The man looks around himself amidst the fight. The Demon-King loves tricks and games, illusions and deceptions.

— Something grabs his leg, and he slams the shield down onto the long, gangly arm.

~ [The Demon-King] ~

Level Up! ~ [The Demon-King] ~

You are now level {86}! Level: 86↗ Experience: 1899/957000 Attribute: DARK Soul-Points: 184/184↗ Presence: 16.9 km ↗ Obols: 000 SOULS COLLECTED: 224,978 / 1,000,000

You have {32} free Ability Points to spend!

The carnival pushes onward, rolling down the road towards the north, pressing towards the capital city that he knows lies there. There are many other hubs of note and importance in between, but that is his primary goal as of now.

The Demon-Core is already one-fifth of the way there.

Pleased, he sits back against his throne. Humans flood his way, desperate to stop him, and in doing so, they feed the furnace. It isn’t just the ones inside the castle, no. There are others, hundreds of them, people of no note or name, pressing through the night, which is filled with gnashing teeth and chattering legs in numbers so dense that their eyes might be mistaken for stars by the fools who stop long enough to look towards the sky.

Soon, the physical realm will experience a collapse after the core ruptures, and then he will fulfill the desires of his deepest heart.

— Byblos ties up her apron again, fixes her dress, and does her best to leave, returning to her other experimentations.

A full deconstruction of both physical and spiritual reality and all of the ugly, confusing sensations that come with it.

The Demon-King sits on his throne, staring down at the statues. He meets his gaze with the one that has an eye, and he stares at it for a time.

“What?” asks Swain as the two of them look at the achievement window that he swipes away. It’s nobody’s business.

The statue doesn’t respond.

Then again, how could it? It doesn’t have a mouth.

~ [Zacarias] ~

Human, Male, Royal Guardsman Location: The Demon-King’s Castle, Floor Thirteen Level: 91

Zacarias charges forward, pressing together with several crusaders at his side as they break a dent in the wall of demons. Long, gangly arms reach around his shield, scratching at his armor with the sickly yellow claws.

He doesn’t know how many he’s hurt, killed, or anything else. It’s just anarchy. People are fighting everywhere, the entire sense of formation has been lost, and everyone has returned to small groups of a few dozen, wherever they could gather themselves. He’s lost track of Ruhr.

The room rumbles and shakes.

Zacarias looks up towards the large, glassy pillars that tower over the room, watching as they quake and tremble.

All of the fighting stops immediately as both the crusaders and, apparently, the demons look up in terror as the gigantic structures, the size of cathedrals, begin crashing down. Standing atop them, like a tiny pinprick, is a woman with blue-hair, striking a very proud and dramatic pose as the ground beneath her feet literally falls apart.

Zacarias lifts his shield, casting a spell as the castle quakes, projecting a magical wall ahead of them to stop the rush of ice splinters and rubble as the room potentially caves in.

(Zacarias) has used: [Noble Barrier]

And through the chaos that ensues on the other side, he and a few hundred people watch as the river-sorceress strikes a pose, her hair billowing behind her as she triumphantly falls, her descent caught half-way by a great dragon made out of water.

The world shakes. The shield is hammered with splinters of jagged ice, a heavy, vaporous mist is rising into the air as cold flakes drift down from above.

The quiet is interrupted by the sound of someone knocking on a window.

Zacarias lowers his tower-shield, looking out past his magical barrier at Ruhr, who is standing there with a smug look on her face. A chunk of ice lays beneath her boot and is firmly pressed up against it as she stands there with her hands on her hips. “You can thank RUHR! THE RIVER-SORCERESS! For saving you once again!” says the woman, holding her hand by her mouth and laughing smugly.

Zacarias looks around himself at the room full of people standing on either side of his tower-shield.

There were never any demons.

It was always just a trick of the eye, caused by the strangely reflective pillars above their heads.

~ [Shaushka] ~

Elf, Female, Classless Location: The Scorched Forest Level: 04

A fat bee flies past her face.

Shaushka turns her head, watching the bumbly, buzzy creature that is certainly out of place, not only because of the rain but also because of its delightful, yellow color. It flies around, before landing on her nose.

“Ah…” says the elf, staring at it with crossed eyes.

The bee rises into the air, buzzing with a heavy vibrating hum as it flies over to some burned flowers, apparently finding little satisfaction there, and then buzzing onward to the next.

She blinks, slowly rising to her feet as she chases after it, heading towards whatever it has to show her.