Demon Core

~ [Ruhr the River-Sorceress] ~

Human | ♀ | Sorceress Rank: SSS Location: The Demon-King’s Castle, Floor Thirty-Two Level: 100

A Thing that is Bound

Bones will crack and tongues will flay,

As come to birth — these binds to stay,

The ties that will wrap flesh around raw meat,

And hold together the men of this day,

— Always one man abreast, as if they were feathers on wings, asplay.

If they are real, or they are not, is quite impossible for one to say,

But as for the Thing that is Bound — it is here, for now, today,

- In the halls of the King; in the burrow of screaming, lost harrows,

Lives now this thing that cares not for cries — chirping like mourning sparrows,

It will take and absorb and fuse and meld,

All of those who oppose the Lord — who deep dwells,

For these men, are too, snared, just as the creature is itself,

— A terror, prolific, amongst those who dared to delve,

- Into the dark.

For they themselves are not but it, and it is not but them,

Together, aloft, a meld of flesh, of biting rats and drowning men,

Horrors untold and terrors beyond the pale of childrens’ wild imaginations,

- Have come now once again to roam the world, present as cruel manifestation,

It is bound, and so are you — We’re both down here together,

In the core of the Beast and the halls of the damned,

In the depths of black revelation.

~ ‘A Thing That is Bound' ~

- Summoned Entity -

Trapped down in the deepest pits of the Demon-King’s castle, the Thing that is Bound is a horrific, crazed entity made up out of thousands of living bodies fused together. The broken arms and legs of thousands of men and women it has taken are fused together, like the interweaving roots of a tree, as the Thing that is Bound makes use of their connected mass as a long, chain-like extension of its own body — as it itself is too, trapped, bound, and locked to unbreakable ties.

Its deepest desire is to catch more people, more bodies to add to itself, so that it might extend its elongated ‘body’ further outward, toward the surface that it yearns to feel.

As for the bodies it takes, death is not promised, and many remain, screaming, their broken arms and legs fused to their corpse-neighbors.

Ruhr sinks, loosely suspended in a fully encompassing body of water that cradles her descending form. The half-elf drifts, falling slowly deeper and deeper into the deep, dark blue water.

Dead bodies sink all around her, together with herself.

If there is any movement in the distance, it is impossible to see given the fading of the light from above. Also because of the simple fact that her eyes are closed.

Long strands of her hair drift slowly behind her in the hot water, and as she drops further, bubbles slowly leave the inside of her soaked, heavy rucksack and from her pursed lips.

— Down here, it’s quiet.

Muted explosions come from the surface and are only barely audible. Sharper tones, such as screams, fail to reach her down in the bleak abyss.

Flashes of light of many colors come from above the surface of the body of water that she’s inside. The ripples and waves caused by the heavy explosions, do little to reach her down here, the energy of the blasts being quickly muffled and absorbed by the deep.

After a moment of silence, Ruhr opens her eyes and stares off into the void.

There’s something else in the water.

Swim.

‘She has to swim, or she’s going to drown’. This is what the lizard voice in the back of her head says, but she ignores it.

— Something stirs in the distance, a movement breaking the murky waters. Her presence has been noticed.

Instead of swimming, though, Ruhr closes her eyes again and sinks further still as something shoots her way from the other end of the arena. The half-elf locks her hands in a pose that might be viewed as a praying position by an outside observer, her shut eyes and lowered head giving credence to the appearance of a drowning woman of pious faith.

Pressure builds between her fingers, the water around her is moving, and her hair and the fabric of her clothes are flowing in entirely different currents than the water’s own.

— And then it arrives.

The thing beneath the water has reached her; she can feel it all around her, the water shifting in different directions as if something were pushing it to the side.

Ruhr opens her eyes, looking at the open, waterlogged face only inches from her own. It twitches, spasming as the muscles fight to move but have nowhere to go. A man drowned but never died; his eyes and tongue are long since rotted out, despite his body remaining intact. His broken arms and legs link him together as a single link in a chain of flesh, whipping around like a tendril — one of many. Hundreds of claimed bodies are bound together like this, becoming living appendages of the monster.

Dozens of faces press in toward her from all sides as the entity closes the tentacle of grim visages around her, the ever-screaming, spasming face of the man moving closer to hers with an open, toothless mouth that snaps rabidly.

— Ruhr lifts her hand, muffling its mouth as the other dozen move in from all sides to take her.

A single word leaves her lips, muted by the water and the gnashing of boneless flesh, the glow beneath her fingers pressing so vividly out of her that the skull of the dead man, which her fingers cover, begins to glow from the inside out.

Corpses rain down from the platforms above like flocks of snow, sinking into the murk.

Pressure grabs her from all sides as the mass of bodies crush her within them just as the spell begins to work, wrapping themselves around her and trapping her under their undulating weight that writhes against her. Broken fingers and rotting faces touch her, grab her, gnaw on her — bind her. Waterlogged hands that jut out from between layers of old bodies yank on her hair, the already dead trying to grab hold of something in an animal attempt to pull themselves free from their own trappings, rather than in an effort to drown her.

(Ruhr) has used: [{Purity} Sacred-Dragon]

The ocean flashes with white, as if the sun itself were rising beneath the brink. The black, murky ink turns into a glowing, raging vividness for a brief second as, in the eyes of the holy-crusade above, the presence of God is evidenced in the bleakest recesses of the world.

The skull that her hand is over explodes, a ripple of pure light and energy running down the chain of bodies in both directions as if an arc of lighting were moving through them. A great surge of moving holy-water, in the shape of a roaring dragon, weaves its way through the corruption. Its open maw rips through thousands of bodies at once, filling them with a radiating energy of cleansing purity — all of the oozing, waterlogged, pus and fungus filled flesh takes on an impossible tone that is the color of heaven itself as she lurches, her body being flung to the side as the wounded monster lashes out in incredible pain.

Holy-water fills the ocean, the tinge of its entirety changing by the second to a lighter tone, like that of a creek in the springtime. The brackish, oily blackwater fades as her purifying power moves through it.

Soggy fingers, knotted in her hair, painfully yank her upward as the entity writhes in anguish, a thousand screams filling the underworld that she’s suspended in.

Ruhr flies up into the air, grabbing hold of a fresh corpse’s belt, pulling a knife out of it. Her body whips around beneath the water, the maddened monstrosity dying in its own, now purified, terrain, writhing in anger. She holds the knife back behind herself, grabbing her own hair and the wet hands holding it, sawing with the blade, cutting through gnarled fingers and blue strands as she releases herself from their grasp.

— Movement comes from the water, angered at her escape and the hurt she caused.

Ruhr holds her hands together and aims down below herself, swimming up at the same time as a violent burst of water from her palms shoots her upward and out of the depths. The energy of her spell propels her upward and repels the thousand screaming faces at the same time.

(Ruhr) has used: [Aquatic Dynamics]

The river-sorceress breaks the surface of the fake lake, shooting far above its churning waters and into the air above with the overly powerful force of the spell.

For a brief second, she hangs there aloft, looking down over the world below herself at the many platforms covered in battle-groups of the crusade, which has employed many new tactics in the face of this growing adversity. Hundreds of priests and priestesses hold their hands together, aiming her way.

— As she comes to a halt, her momentum lessening and her fall just beginning now, a sharp whistle cuts the air from below as someone gives a signal.

Ruhr still holds her hands together as before, and in that single time-stopped second, her gaze turns to the spire of water that she’s rising up on from below and then toward the ocean, filled with corpses that have made her its primary target now.

Just below the top of the water sit thousands of faces, thousands of fingers, and thousands of mouths, all turned her way — just barely breaking the surface.

The doctrine whistle comes to an end as hundreds of people mobilize at once.

The air around her crystallizes, crackling noisily as if winter had come early and everything was freezing over in a fresh frost.

A tower of corpses lunges out of the water straight toward her from below, hoping to catch her as she falls back down into it.

Suddenly, dozens of magical, prismatic glass platforms appear just below Ruhr in a circle, leaving a hole free just below her. They all hang in the air. The magical platforms created by the priests of the crusade act as a catcher. Her boots land on either side of the rim of a pane of glass, the river-sorceress standing there with spread legs as her hands aim down at the hole she’s above — a tunnel that is solidifying as more and more magical barriers come into place, creating a hollow cylinder, a tube, that she’s standing atop of.

Trapped, already in motion, the thousand faces of the monster’s waterlogged tendril compress, sliding over the sleek glass from the inside of the pipe that they’ve been forced into, pressing together in graceless compression as their total, squelching mass is much too large to fit through the tight passage. Meat and glass squeak as they rub against one another, the edges of the magical tunnel cracking and ripping from the much too large fit forcing its way through to reach her at the end of it.

Ruhr’s hands glow as the few faces that can manage to do so turn upward to look at her, standing there above them, her short hair matted over her wet face.

(Ruhr) has used: [{Purity} Sacred-Dragon]

Again, the dragon made entirely out of holy-water erupts from her fingers, the counter-force of the spell pressing itself straight back down through the tube from above, the pure water raging against the pressing of wriggling flesh in the soaked passage. Steam and crackling flakes of floating magical glass fill the air together with loud, vivid screams as the monster — unable to pull itself back out now back into the blackwater — drowns above the ocean in holy-water, in the small prison it had forced itself into in its greedy desire to have her.

Holy-water burns away meat and sinew. It burns away through hollow sockets and gaping maws, the pressure of the spell that still continues to rage pushing down further and further, Ruhr’s scream overpowering those of the thousand — of the legion — until a moment later, it is done.

The cylinder bursts, sending water spraying everywhere.

The magical barriers, unable to hold up against the pressure any longer, explode in all directions. Pure, holy-water and pieces of meat rain down over the smoldering ocean and sink.

This time, they remain unmoving.

Ruhr stands there, panting for breath, watching it all fade away down beneath herself, watching it all vanish into the brink.

It’s done.

Another magical platform comes into existence, sealing the ripped and broken hole that she’s standing over with her waterlogged boots.

The river-sorceress stands back upright on firm footing, looking down over the edge and nodding to the priests as she then steps off and into the air herself.

— Before she can fall, more platforms are made beneath her feet, and a staircase comes into existence as she descends back down toward the rest of the arena.

Members of the crusade clap and cheer, letting themselves be put at ease by her idle hand that waves them off as she walks past them, swiping a strand of long hair out of the side of her face to sell the image a bit more.

Since then, since what happened before, she’s taken a somewhat more active role in the leadership of the crusade, which they all seem more than happy with, considering the grim losses that they’ve sustained just getting this far into the Demon-King’s Castle. This is a problem they’re actively working on fixing now.

This quiet change of behavior has elevated her status in the eyes of the crusaders, who, until now, have viewed her as sort of a lofty, flippant cosmic oddity rather than the tip of the spear that she was hoped to represent. Yes, she had been given a holy blessing. But she hasn’t really acted the part until now.

Ruhr looks at the chief officer, Mistley, who comes in rank after her. “Set it up,” she orders, walking past him before he can try to catch up to her and stop her. Thankfully, he’s a bit run down after all of these days.

This should have been enough time for the others, who had gone back upstairs, to get ready — assuming they didn’t desert or die on the way.

Mistley nods, waving over a series of casters from nearby. “Yes, ma’am,” he replies without any questions or objections.

Ruhr sits down on a rock and starts unlacing her boots.

“Miss… Miss Ruhr?” asks a voice from the side.

Ruhr looks at the limping priestess, a young woman with black hair wrapped into a tight braid that drapes over her shoulder. She doesn’t look like an actual crusader. Likely, she’s just an attendant priestess to some crusader of social renown who died on the way, and now she’s kind of straggling with the group that she got dragged into. Given that hygiene is somewhat difficult down here, braids and buns are the best way to keep long hair out of the way, short of cutting it off entirely. So just about everyone has employed some manner of low-maintenance-hairstyle. These little creature comforts add a surprising amount in the face of the true horror that they’re immersed in. “Thanks for the platform,” says Ruhr, taking off her boot and turning it upside down, a pool of water leaking out of the soaked leather.

“Of course,” replies the priestess, lifting a hand with a weak finger to point. “You, uh… may I?” she asks, carefully reaching over toward Ruhr as she shambles closer to her. “- You have fingers in your hair.”

“It’s almost like I’m a teenager again,” replies Ruhr dryly, shaking her head and taking off her other boot, instead of worrying about the pieces of a few corpses stuck in her tresses. Wet feet are a real problem, especially in wet boots. Foot rot is a real issue for adventurers in dungeons who don’t take proper care of themselves. It’s a very debilitating illness if not carefully handled.

“Huh?” asks the priestess. “Oh. Uh - Pardon me,” she says, holding out a piece of white cloth and disgustedly picking out the dead, rotting fingers from Ruhr’s hair.

“Don’t worry about it,” replies Ruhr, loosening the laces more on her boots to open them both as wide as she can, eyeing the woman out of the side of her vision. After a second, the sorceress looks around for a fire-caster and sees one. She whistles sharply, getting his attention. “Would you?” she asks, carelessly throwing her soaked boots at him.

The man fumbles, catching them both barely.

Ruhr sighs, looking ahead of herself as the few powerful casters of the crusade form a circle, now that the battle is over.

Of the thousand-some who had entered the Demon-King’s castle, only a good hundred less than a handful remain. Of those aren’t necessarily the strongest and the best. A lot of people just made it this far through sheer luck and happenstance. The Demon-King’s castle churns down the bones of everyone it can take equally, indifferent to the volume of their screams.

Ruhr holds up the knife she took from the corpse for the priestess. “Cut the rest.”

“What?” she asks, not understanding.

“My hair,” says Ruhr, reaching behind herself and ringing out her soaked hair that is already half-chopped past her shoulders from her escape. She pinches off a section where she had cut it below the water. “Cut the rest off here.”

The priestess takes the knife. “R- really?”

Ruhr glares her way. “If you came here to be useful, then be useful,” snaps the river-sorceress at her, folding her hands together, her elbows on her knees, as she looks back at the ritual that is being performed. “Just do it.”

“Y- yes, Miss Ruhr.”

The first assault that she led against the Demon-King’s castle was a failure. She led everyone into a trap below that graveyard back when this all started, and they all died. Everyone except her and Zacarias.

The second assault that she led against the Demon-King’s castle with the troop of nobles failed, leaving only her and Zacarias alive until the crusade arrived.

Now, she’s lost Zac too, and most of the crusade. Plus, her hair looks like shit. This is going to be disastrous for her image.

They say that the ‘third time's the charm’, but as far as she can tell, that isn’t the case. She’ll have to bet on number four.

Nervous hands hold her hair from the side, the frightened priestess taking a moment to make sure she’s cutting at the right spot, lest Ruhr snaps at her again.

She had moved away from all of that in these last few weeks — her obsession with her status and with how she’s perceived in the public eye during her ascent to power and fame. For a while, she was so wrapped up in this new game of life that she was playing together with Zacarias that she actually thought it was real. She deluded herself into thinking that a life like that was real.

But it isn’t. It never was. Not for her. It wasn’t possible back when she was a girl, and it isn’t possible now that she’s a woman.

That pretend world in which people are happy, in which… feelings like those ones, like the ones she was feeling for Zacarias — it’s not real. It’s pretend. It’s fake. It’s a game. The real world is this. It’s ugly. It’s as far from the beauty of cherished hopes, kindness, and grace as it can be. Those things are just temporary illusions. They’re smears of paint over a fundamentally cracked and broken facade.

Whatever.

It was fun. She had some odd hopes for a while there, some odd thoughts. But now those are gone. Zacarias is gone. All that’s left is Ruhr, the river-sorceress. She’s back where she started.

Ruhr watches as the circle of crusaders begins to channel the spell.

The Demon-King has been playing his game now too, but she’s about done with it as well. He thinks that he’s trapped them here in the belly of his castle, and that might be true. But what he hasn’t considered is that there is a risk to eating things alive.

Sometimes, those things might gnaw from the inside out.

A pulse of energy generates between the circle of crusaders, holding together. A ripple forms in the air in their midst, the air waving in the movements of the incredible heat and collecting in the circle of magical energy.

A moment later, a tear appears — a rip. A portal.

The unstable line of energy, hovering in the air, waves back and forth like a wriggling worm, unable to find cohesion in a straight, rigid form.

Behind her, the priestess with the hurt leg lops off the long hair, wrapping it into a little ball.

The portal comes into shape.

It’s a connection to another one of the same make and energy, one that the other teams that they had sent back above to the prior floors have set up, creating a chain from one portal to the next, from one floor to the next. It is a link of shortcuts that run through the Demon-King’s castle.

For a moment, everything looks good.

However, then the portal essentially explodes.

The ring of casters is sent flying, with a few of them landing in the water. One of them screams as the wave of wild, dangerously volatile magic erupts his way, and a wave of burning ash sears his hands and face. He falls to the ground, crying in horror, as priests run around to help him.

Ruhr puts her hand by her mouth, calling out to them. “Do it again,” she orders.

The sorceress rises up to her feet.

They’re going to get this damn thing set up and create a new staging area here. Without reinforcements, they’re not going to make it.

— She is. She’s going to kill the Demon-King no matter what. But the others are not going to make it without more numbers, and, more importantly, she needs witnesses to watch her kill the Demon-King if she’s going to become famous for this mess.

Ruhr looks back at the priestess, who is still holding the bundle of hair and knife, not really sure what to do with either of them. “Hey. You a virgin?”

“Pardon?” asks the priestess, looking up at her very quickly. “Y- yes?” she replies, unsure. “As a priestess, I am honor-bound to -”

“- Yeah, yeah,” replies Ruhr dryly, cutting the priestess off and taking the ball of blue, matted hair from her. “Come to my spot later," says the half-elf. "We’ll fix that for you.”

“Oh!” The priestess waves her hands nervously in response. “- I uh, I’m flattered,” she starts. “But I’m not -”

The river-sorceress throws the bundle of hair carelessly into the water of the arena, letting it sink away. Grabbing the knife by the blade, Ruhr pulls it from the woman’s hand and then tucks it down in between the priestess’ belt and robe, on the side of her bad leg. “- You’re going to die kicking and screaming down here anyway,” says Ruhr to the nervous stranger, turning to leave. “Might as well get some practice in before.”

The half-elf walks away, grabbing her boots from the fire-caster, who was heating them up. She holds them under her arm as she moves toward the ritual circle. “Hey! You slime-slurpers!” barks Ruhr, clapping her hands together as the singed casters get back into loose formation. “I said do it again!” she orders, as the magic circle begins to power up a second time.

Gods know what sort of mess is happening up on the surface all of this time that they’ve been done here.

~ [Outside of the Demon-Carnival] ~

Screams and metal clash all around them.

The man’s face contorts in fear as he falls back, crawling through the dirt, his horrified and blood-caked visage staring up toward the night-sky. There on the horizon, stemming out of the darkest shadows of the world beyond his vision, protrudes a long, witchy arm that reaches toward the lofty heights. Its width is the size of castles; its length is impossible on a human scale. The entity of pure shadow rises up higher, higher and higher still, as it reaches up toward the night-sky above. The hand, with fingers so long and impossibly sharp, delicately pinches a pinprick of light that dares to shine in the Demon-King’s sky — a star — and pulls it back down toward the world below. Its delicate grip was receding, as if it were holding a small, squirming firefly.

As the black hand lowers itself back down toward the ground, the star never grows in size. Instead, it simply always stays a single pinprick of light that then just vanishes over into the distant horizon, leaving the sky just a little bit darker than it was a moment ago.

“GET UP, YOU DAFT FOOL!” yells a voice, another soldier tearing him to his feet.

His chest heaves in terror, his panicked breathing not keeping pace with the racing of his heart. “- What- what- ?!”

— The world explodes in a violent eruption, sending him flying and tumbling over the mud and the stones a distance away. His armor, super-heated from the blast, hisses as he rolls through the wet mud, barely scrambling back upright. The lost man looks around himself, screaming in horror as he looks at the now disembodied arm still gripping his breastplate, broken bone and sinew hanging from the far end of it.

He tears the lost arm off of himself, throwing it to the ground, and looks around himself at the chaos happening in all directions.

Legions of undead, beasts with gnarled and twisted faces, churn through swarms of men — soldiers from the distant regions and allied nations that have come together in an ambush on the Demon-Carnival. It sits there, stopped in its route in the middle of its way.

Hordes of demons pour from every shadow in and around the caravan.

He runs, not even sure to where, just in the first direction that he picks in his mindless terror. The sky is filled with claws and teeth and screaming bodies, torn from the soil by things that reach and take.

— The shadowy arm, the Thing that Gathers Stars, reaches up again to take another pinprick of light from the night. Every star it takes makes the world a little darker and makes the battle a little harder to fight. Soon, they’ll be left in full immersion in nothingness — in total entropy.

He slips again in the mud, mixed with blood and rainwater, tumbling forward. Crawling for a second, he then continues running through groups of soldiers, holding formation and fighting the armies of the damned. Fairy lights and hellfire overstimulate his thoughts and vision as he, frantic and lost like an animal, finds no footing anywhere in his body or in his spirit.

His eyes are torn between the sight of a screaming priest holding onto his own entrails that are being yanked up into the air out from his guts by a sharply taloned harpy, like a marionette’s string, and the sight of the shadow behind it, stealing another star from the night sky.

~ ‘The Thing that Gathers Stars’ ~

- Summoned Entity -

Sitting on the edge of the realms of physicality and the collective dream-state of the world, the Thing that Gathers Stars is an egregore, made manifest by the shared nightmares of the world. The total despair of humanity has been made manifest, through the powers of the Demon-King, the threat of the total extinction of the flame of their world given shape and form as something that quite literally steals the little light that remains.

The Thing that Gathers Stars will do nothing else except tenderly and gently reach up toward the sky for all to see, plucking the stars from the night one by one. It will work its way through the countless thousands of them until there is nothing left but total blackness.

— The dimmer the world becomes, the more the creatures of tooth and claw thrive in the darkness.

*’Terror’ is a classification term used for all monster-types that do not fall into traditional monster categories, such as UNDEAD, GOLEM, GHOST, etc. Terrors tend to have unique make-ups and behavior patterns and lean towards hyper-violent tendencies.

True Terrors go beyond the scope of traditional logic and reason, merging in the shadows between the veil of reality and the spirit-world.

The storm that never stops howling all around the world, the raging heat that stems from the Demon-King’s caravan causing the mud to bubble and boil in several places, creating a screaming quagmire that others sink into, desperately trying to pull themselves free from as they’re boiled alive while they slowly sink into the muck. Some of the unfortunate have their faces gnawed on by long necked monstrosities — vampires — whose pale, sickly, and wet protruding necks they fail to hold back.

— He tumbles, falling again as a fresh shockwave blasts through the air.

Crawling once more, he lifts his gaze, looking at the source of the blast.

A man wielding a thin, elongated rapier holds firm, the blade resting in the claws of a demon the likes of which he has never seen before in any text or story. It is clad in scales that have grown onto its exterior like a knight’s armor, and the tall, lean monstrosity radiates raw power from itself. It has spindly, sharp legs that rest at a needle-point that glides over the soil. Its befoulment is so much so that very air here makes him nauseous to even be in, the sensation of its raw presence too vivid to ignore — like a corpse, rotting in a room one is trapped in.

— A shadow moves behind the locked combatants.

“LOOK OUT!” yells the man down in the mud, as a second Demon-Knight moves out of the mass of bodies and warfare, its towering form having been hidden in shadows and wildfire as it lunges out toward the fencer from behind with long, sharp claws of metal of an unspeakable origin.

The fencer’s thumb clicks down onto a mechanism on the hilt of his rapier as he ducks down, pulling on the hilt at the same time, which comes free from the elongated blade of the weapon, inside of which was socketed a smaller knife. The knight he was fighting falls forward as his counterbalancing weight leaves the spot, holding onto the unmounted long-blade as, a second later, the other knight collides with the first, its claws cutting into his demonic armor.

— The fencer kicks his leg against a knight, sliding back and away through the mud and out of harm’s way. Without a second of peace, he ducks down over a swiping arm from behind and plunges the knife into the throat of a reaching ghoul, severing its spinal cord.

The wounded Demon-Knight opens its mouth, snarling at the other with a meat and gore filled maw. The other one, perhaps at fault or perhaps not, roars back as she pulls her claws out of his bleeding chest, and the two of them begin to fight one another in something akin to a lover’s quarrel, tearing into one anothers’ bodies in a carnal ritual, now that they are distracted from their prey.

The man in the mud gets up and runs again, froth and tears running down his face.

~ [The Demon-King] ~

“Look! I drew a goat!” says Kirsch, the ghost.

Swain, the monstrous beast that is the Demon-King, lifts his head and holds out his hand, taking the ‘paper’ that is made from a flayed, screaming soul, and looks at the drawing on it.

Depicted on its surface is a goat, crude and clearly drawn by a child’s unskilled hands.

“Excellent,” growls the Demon-King’s harrowing voice, his foul candor being the scourge of all that lives and is good. His massive, wretched clawed hand, the size of many mens’ crushed bodies, moves over to the side and presses the sheet against the wall. It sticks there, next to several other drawings of such a nature, as the flayed soul, screaming, burns into the scorching hot brickwork of the throne-room. It fuses with the rock because of the heat. “You have served me well, Kirsch,” he praises as the screams of the tortured and damned fill the air.

Kirsch the ghost beams as best she can. The sheet that covers her body, ever-dripping with blood, leaks down onto the hissing floors, steam rising into the air between the feet of the hundreds of statues that fill the throne-room. The ground between them has begun to crack and break from the intensity of the inferno, giving the appearance as if they were all about to fall into the deepest recesses of the underworld itself — even deeper than they are now.

“You like it?!” she asks excitedly.

“I am pleased,” replies Swain, leaning back on his throne, his massive arms lumbering down onto its rests.

The ghost spins in a little circle, clutching her gore-soaked doll, as she looks around for a new ‘sheet of paper’ to catch. The souls flying around the throne-room, sensing her intent, swim away like a trapped school of fish, trying to escape a shark in their midst.

“My lord,” says a voice from below him. Swain lowers his gaze, looking at his servant, Cartouche, the dancer. “We are getting closer to the human capital,” says the demon, lifting her gaze to look at him.

Swain nods. “We are, Cartouche,” replies the Demon-King.

“But we’re stuck,” she adds.

“We are,” repeats Swain again, resting his head on one of his massive fists.

The dancer looks his way. “What would you have us do?” she asks. “Should we go and remove the problem?” asks Cartouche, referring to herself and the other gallu — the Demon-King’s most powerful servants.

Swain shakes his head. “There is no need,” he replies, lifting his hand. “It will solve itself soon,” he explains, his many eyes watching the crusade work. “Spend your hours perfecting your craft, Cartouche,” instructs the Demon-King. “The final stage is almost set,” states the beast. “And the world will be there to watch the beauty of your creation unfold,” he promises. “I look forward to it.”

“Yes, my lord,” replies Cartouche, smiling. “…There is something else,” she starts. “A human is in the depths. Abydos -”

“- I know,” replies Swain, lifting his other hand to stop her. “It is also no bother,” he explains.

“My lord?”

He shakes his head. “We all have our playthings,” says the Demon-King. “If the painter needs her for his musings as an artist, then it is not my place to stop him.”

Cartouche tilts her head, looking at him. “This is a threat to you, my lord,” she explains. “A human this close to the throne, even if she’s weak -”

“No…” replies Swain, staring off into the distance as he thinks. “I tolerate her presence,” growls the Demon-King, but is not able to really tell her why. There’s something there in the priestess’ mind… something familiar. A sense of rejection from her own and also acceptance from another that is vague and oddly… homesome. There’s something he knows deep down in the thoughts that she radiates and in the feelings that she emanates. It’s something that reminds him of…

— The Demon-King shakes his head, not quite sure of what exactly he is reminded of, actually.

“The pursuit of beauty comes in many shapes, Cartouche,” explains the Demon-King, his voice hissing together with the baking rock of the darkness below the world. “And some of those shapes are unconventional.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” she replies, nodding. After a moment, she vanishes, teleporting away.

— Somewhere above him, a soul lets out a horrific scream, having been caught.

~ [Ruhr the River-Sorceress] ~

Human | ♀ | Sorceress Rank: SSS Location: The Demon-King’s Castle, Floor Thirty-Two Level: 100

It is later that night.

The chamber is filled with thousands of voices, which are unusually loud.

The portals were a success, but only for the price of a few fingers and a bit of skin.

— They’ve connected the floor that they’re on now to the entrance and have made a sweep back to the exit of the castle, funneling in several thousands of warm bodies from the armies that had surrounded the Demon-Carnival outside. It took some doing and a bit of blood, but with the counter-assault that came from inside the castle itself, the combined forces managed to repel the exterior demon-onslaught, at least long enough to get everyone 'evacuated' inside.

The demonic caravan is moving again, but they couldn’t have stopped it for much longer anyway. The other army is better off acting as a force multiplier inside the castle than outside of it now. The crusade and the officers are organizing themselves now, reestablishing a chain of command.

The plan now is to use the portal mechanism as they push deeper, always returning to a fortified position here where they can heal the wounded and rest.

As for food, many have given up after days of hunger and just started eating whatever they could find. The concept of being damned to the underworld if one eats there means nothing to many of them now, as they assume they'll soon die here anyway given what they’ve experienced. And, given what has happened so far, they might really not be wrong to do so.

Ruhr lets out a long, deep exhalation, rolling back over on the bedding onto her back, a slender arm draping over her front as two sweaty bodies lay next to one another.

The black haired priestess lays there, her fingers tracing patterns on the half-elf’s skin, as Ruhr stares at the ceiling, thinking.

“Hey, you still got that knife?” asks Ruhr a moment later, turning her head toward the woman.

The priestess opens her eyes. “Huh?” After a confused second, she sits upright, holding the blanket against her chest, to look around for the pile of clothes just next to them. She pulls out the knife, handing it to Ruhr. “That’s kind of a scary question…”

Ruhr takes the knife and stands up next to her, the blanket falling off as she walks past the somewhat overwhelmed stranger, who isn’t sure if she should look this way or that way. “I gotta go do something real quick,” says the river-sorceress, bending over and grabbing her clothes to get dressed.

“That’s also kind of a scary thing to say,” remarks the priestess. “Should I- uh-” She stops for a second. “My name is -”

“- Ah-ah!” Ruhr stops her, adjusting her belt. She kneels down and looks at the priestess from close. “Don’t,” she says, a hand below the woman’s chin, holding it up as they look at one another.

“…Oh…” She looks at her, rubbing her arm nervously, as Ruhr stands back up and lets her go. “Well, this was…” She looks away. “I- I should. Uh, I think I’ll -”

“Stay here,” says Ruhr, walking to the flap of the tent and looking back at her. “I’ll be right back.” She looks down at the knife and then back at her. “Don’t get dressed.”

Ruhr closes the tent behind herself, looking around the crowd. Everywhere, soldiers and crusaders are celebrating. Dehydrated crusaders are drinking water as if it were pure Amrita from the heavens. They’re eating military rations as if they were the first food they’ve ever received.

She doesn’t blame them.

They’ve all reached a point where faith and piety have collided with human needs and desperation.

Walking through the crowds of celebrating revelry, she moves toward the officer’s circle, walking past the row of guardsmen who keep it separate from the rest.

“Ah, look who’s decided to join us!” says a voice from the circle. An officer from the military claps his hands together at the sight of her as she walks toward them. “The famous Ruhr, the river-sorceress!” he says.

Ruhr instinctively reaches up to flick her hair away, but it’s shorter now, and her fingers find no grip at first, until she reaches higher up. “The one and only,” she replies, looking around the circle. “Glad you made it to my party,” says the river-sorceress. “Ah- Officer Mistley?” she asks, gesturing for a man to come over to her — the chief officer of the crusade.

“Yes, ma’am?” he asks, stepping away from the improvised planning table toward her.

Ruhr nods to him. “I just wanted to say thank you,” she says. “For your excellent work today with the portals.” The sorceress holds out a hand in an unusual gesture for the hard social image that she has made for herself this past week. “And I wanted to apologize for stressing you this afternoon about it.”

The man blinks, looking around the table for a second before turning back to her and taking her hand with his cold palm. “Of course. I understand, we’re all just doing our jobs,” he says, clasping his second hand over her outstretched hand in a firm gesture as he smiles warmly her way. “Thank yo -”

— Officer Mistley gurgles, black blood oozing out of his neck as she stabs the knife into it from the side with her free hand.

People scream around the table in confusion, the camp rising to alert as he stumbles back, grasping at his oozing throat, blood leaking everywhere as long, sharp, spindly legs like those of a spider flay out in all directions from the cut. They kick and scream, people backing away from him as his body violently spasms, as if a terrified spider were trying to work its way out of the flesh that it has nested itself inside of but finding nowhere to go.

Ruhr stands there, staring at him intently as she lifts her hands.

“I figured you out,” says the river-sorceress, looking at the possessed corpse. The officer is long since dead; his body has been taken over by a thing, a monster in the Demon-King’s employ. “Don’t think I didn’t recognize you from last time,” replies Ruhr, never blinking as she lifts her hands toward it.

As long as somebody is watching it, it can’t leave. It can only ever be places where nobody is looking.

For days and weeks, people have been going missing here and there. Not even because they died in the fights. They’ve just been… vanishing. It took a while, but she’s pieced it together. They’ve met before, she and this thing, when she and Zac had made it to the safe room on floor eleven.

She thought it had died when it fell down the pit, but clearly she was wrong.

Ruhr narrows her eyes.

“Get the fuck out of my castle,” says the river-sorceress, aiming her hands at the Thing that Shambles, glowing water condensing around her fingers, the room erupting in a violent flood of crystal flow.

(Ruhr) has used: [{Purity} Sacred-Dragon]