That's fine, for sure. Not like he was going anywhere for a while, as it is.
Unable to fight back, the Intellect Devourer only briefly manages to twitch and spasm before going limp, easy to finish off - and at least Popp already knows to brace himself when it bursts.
Mithrun sits on the floor of a dimly-lit hallway, its walls lined with grimy, cracked frames that may have once held paintings or mirrors. Someone kneels behind him, a hand on his shoulder. Something looms in front of him. It has the head of a lion, though adorned with thick, curved horns. Its body is like a man's, albeit covered in golden fur. It towers, taller than any human, muscular arms wrapped around its chest. A young woman with long, tapered ears and golden hair huddles under its bulk behind a half-dozen gleaming golden wings.
The awed, horrified whispers behind Mithrun hardly garner his attention - but for one. Two words that ring in his mind with more force than anything else. "A demon."
The winged lion - the demon - yawns and stretches, as though just awoken. Its gaze sweeps over Mithrun, or maybe just over the area he's crouched in, pushing into a kneel, and it speaks. "It's been so long since I've tasted freedom... but it looks like now is no time to be lounging around. What shall you have us do, Marcille?"
The woman in its hold startles and looks up at it, wide-eyed. She protests, but Mithrun's attention stays locked on the lion. He rises to his feet, pushing from under the hold of the person crouched behind him, as the demon responds. "Let me explain it to you once more. I am merely a source of power. I can do nothing without someone to wield that power."
Marcille just starts to answer: "Someone to wield your power... which means--"
Mithrun takes off at a run.
His hand flies out to brush over the cracked frames lining the wall, each appearing half-embedded in the demon's body - its wing, its shoulder, one bisecting its face. One severs a horn. In a blink, Mithrun is above the demon and the woman. He snatches the broken horn from the air and brings it down. It pierces flesh - the demon's massive hand, held between Mithrun and Marcille.
Mithrun hisses through his teeth. The demon (wood and glass still embedded down the center of its muzzle, its own horn skewering its hand) looks at him with round, unassuming eyes. His stomach turns. "Hey, now. She's still just an ordinary adventurer, you know. That's against the rules."
He rips the frame from its face and casts. It reappears between the demon's head and shoulders, and that head slides and thumps to the ground. Mithrun drops a thick sheet of flesh, Marcille shrieks as he reaches for her - and that other broad, golden hand blocks his way. The demon's voice rumbles from the flat stump of its neck. "You're really not getting the message, are you?"
Mithrun's heart hammers behind his ribs, and he tears his cape free of his shoulders. "You're a manifestation of the infinite. If I can't kill you, then I have no other choice, you bastard."
The demon scoffs, even as Mithrun whips his cape over his head. The fabric embeds itself across the demon’s shoulders and chest. He rips it free. He casts, and a wing drops to the ground. He casts. The demon loses a hand. A leg. Bits and pieces and sheets of flesh fall away, but it only takes seconds after he casts for golden feathers to bloom from the wounds, regenerating as fast as Mithrun can do damage. Voices shout behind him, but he pays them no mind - not until an array of thick, earthen spikes burst from the ground, piercing through the demon's body.
Things change quickly, from there - a seeming turn of the tides, as those accompanying Mithrun focus their efforts. The demon momentarily immobilized. The woman who had hidden in its grasp running, injured but moving. Mithrun breaks off one of those spikes. It disappears from his hand, replaced by flesh and bone, and the woman staggers and falls.
He teleports just a few feet away from her. There is no malice in his voice when he speaks. "Just give up. There's no way your wish was ever going to be fulfilled."
He stoops down and reaches for her, his hand about to settle on the back of her neck. Marcille whips around, teeth gritted and green eyes sharp, to grip his wrist, and she calls out to the lion. "I'll become the lord of the dungeon!"
Dread drops in Mithrun's stomach. Everything is overtaken in blinding light.
There’s pressure around Mithrun’s ribs. The demon is before him again, intact. Marcille sits on its arm, uninjured, wide-eyed. “Well, then. With this, I am at your service, Marcille.” Its tone brightens, as though it weren’t gripping Mithrun in one hand. As if he hadn’t been tearing it apart seconds before. “What shall we begin with? A new outfit? A remodel of the dungeon?”
Before Marcille can fully answer, the demon’s grip tightens, and Mithrun’s ribs creak, pain shooting up his sides as he strains to breathe. “Ahh, yes. Getting rid of your enemies comes first, huh?”
Marcille protests, and it doesn't squeeze any tighter. They go back and forth. Mithrun’s ears are ringing, cold sweat rising on his skin from something beyond the restriction of his breath by the demon’s hand. There’s a flurry of activity, others trying to take down the woman or the demon or both - and, very suddenly, it stops. Behind Mithrun, there are shrieks and protests; with whatever the demon is doing drawing its attention, he manages to drag in a breath, to force his focus enough to catch a complaint from Marcille. The demon huffs back that it's what she wanted. Mithrun struggles, and gets nowhere.
More sounds - something cracking and tearing, and even more terrified screams. Mithrun manages to twist just enough to catch sight of something - what looks like a spider, if one were to replace its head with that of a plush bear, descending on a small woman with short-cropped hair and long, notched ears. He barely glimpses more of the same carnage further down the hall - more elves, each dressed in similar tunics and silken armor, unconscious or trapped by more of the spider-bear-things.
Marcille asks to retreat (something, if Popp catches it through the haze of distraction and exhaustion clouding Mithrun's memory, about stopping someone from decomposing), and panic rises in Mithrun's chest again - even before the demon's free hand settles over Marcille, blocking her view.
Its gaze shifts to Mithrun once more. The longest it's bothered to look at him. Mithrun's throat goes tight. "Until we meet again, Mithrun."
Mithrun starts to protest - and with a swing of its arm, the demon hurls him against the stone floor.
It’s only with a last-minute cast that Mithrun lands-- elsewhere. Somewhere other than splattered on the ground. He’s surrounded by some kind of thick fluid, and his already-struggling lungs protest. He waits as long as he can - until he hears new voices, two men and a woman. Until he doesn’t think he can force himself not to inhale any longer. He feels for an opening, pushes, and tears free, dragging in a pained breath as he breaks free of his hiding place. Someone screams, and he doesn’t even look - just lurches to his feet, muscles protesting every movement.
He forces a step forward, and another, and warm hands grip his wrist. Mithrun stops in place and turns. He’s face to face with a young man, this one with short, rounded ears, dark hair and wide blue eyes. Mithrun’s voice rasps in his throat. “Let go.”
“Where are you going? We need to take a minute to recover and regroup.”
“Right now, when she’s just become a dungeon lord, is when she’ll be easiest to kill.” He pulls against the man’s grip, to no avail. “She’ll be harder for us to deal with with each minute that passes.”
He looks almost concerned. “Even so, it’s impossible to do anything in your state. You’re on the verge of running out of mana.”
Mithrun pulls away, his sights locked down the hall in the direction the demon disappeared. “There’s no time--”
The man’s hold releases, for just a moment - and then there’s an arm around his throat, and Mithrun is pinned between his chest and hips and the flat expanse of the wall. Mithrun protests, but the man only pushes harder. His arm tightens around Mithrun’s throat, and dark spots bloom over his vision.
His words fade, distant, as Mithrun's overtaxed body gives out and the memory goes dark. “If you can’t avoid this, then you don’t stand a chance of beating a demon.”
big spoilers of course, also violence/body horror
Unable to fight back, the Intellect Devourer only briefly manages to twitch and spasm before going limp, easy to finish off - and at least Popp already knows to brace himself when it bursts.
Mithrun sits on the floor of a dimly-lit hallway, its walls lined with grimy, cracked frames that may have once held paintings or mirrors. Someone kneels behind him, a hand on his shoulder. Something looms in front of him. It has the head of a lion, though adorned with thick, curved horns. Its body is like a man's, albeit covered in golden fur. It towers, taller than any human, muscular arms wrapped around its chest. A young woman with long, tapered ears and golden hair huddles under its bulk behind a half-dozen gleaming golden wings.
The awed, horrified whispers behind Mithrun hardly garner his attention - but for one. Two words that ring in his mind with more force than anything else. "A demon."
The winged lion - the demon - yawns and stretches, as though just awoken. Its gaze sweeps over Mithrun, or maybe just over the area he's crouched in, pushing into a kneel, and it speaks. "It's been so long since I've tasted freedom... but it looks like now is no time to be lounging around. What shall you have us do, Marcille?"
The woman in its hold startles and looks up at it, wide-eyed. She protests, but Mithrun's attention stays locked on the lion. He rises to his feet, pushing from under the hold of the person crouched behind him, as the demon responds. "Let me explain it to you once more. I am merely a source of power. I can do nothing without someone to wield that power."
Marcille just starts to answer: "Someone to wield your power... which means--"
Mithrun takes off at a run.
His hand flies out to brush over the cracked frames lining the wall, each appearing half-embedded in the demon's body - its wing, its shoulder, one bisecting its face. One severs a horn. In a blink, Mithrun is above the demon and the woman. He snatches the broken horn from the air and brings it down. It pierces flesh - the demon's massive hand, held between Mithrun and Marcille.
Mithrun hisses through his teeth. The demon (wood and glass still embedded down the center of its muzzle, its own horn skewering its hand) looks at him with round, unassuming eyes. His stomach turns. "Hey, now. She's still just an ordinary adventurer, you know. That's against the rules."
He rips the frame from its face and casts. It reappears between the demon's head and shoulders, and that head slides and thumps to the ground. Mithrun drops a thick sheet of flesh, Marcille shrieks as he reaches for her - and that other broad, golden hand blocks his way. The demon's voice rumbles from the flat stump of its neck. "You're really not getting the message, are you?"
Mithrun's heart hammers behind his ribs, and he tears his cape free of his shoulders. "You're a manifestation of the infinite. If I can't kill you, then I have no other choice, you bastard."
The demon scoffs, even as Mithrun whips his cape over his head. The fabric embeds itself across the demon’s shoulders and chest. He rips it free. He casts, and a wing drops to the ground. He casts. The demon loses a hand. A leg. Bits and pieces and sheets of flesh fall away, but it only takes seconds after he casts for golden feathers to bloom from the wounds, regenerating as fast as Mithrun can do damage. Voices shout behind him, but he pays them no mind - not until an array of thick, earthen spikes burst from the ground, piercing through the demon's body.
Things change quickly, from there - a seeming turn of the tides, as those accompanying Mithrun focus their efforts. The demon momentarily immobilized. The woman who had hidden in its grasp running, injured but moving. Mithrun breaks off one of those spikes. It disappears from his hand, replaced by flesh and bone, and the woman staggers and falls.
He teleports just a few feet away from her. There is no malice in his voice when he speaks. "Just give up. There's no way your wish was ever going to be fulfilled."
He stoops down and reaches for her, his hand about to settle on the back of her neck. Marcille whips around, teeth gritted and green eyes sharp, to grip his wrist, and she calls out to the lion. "I'll become the lord of the dungeon!"
Dread drops in Mithrun's stomach. Everything is overtaken in blinding light.
There’s pressure around Mithrun’s ribs. The demon is before him again, intact. Marcille sits on its arm, uninjured, wide-eyed. “Well, then. With this, I am at your service, Marcille.” Its tone brightens, as though it weren’t gripping Mithrun in one hand. As if he hadn’t been tearing it apart seconds before. “What shall we begin with? A new outfit? A remodel of the dungeon?”
Before Marcille can fully answer, the demon’s grip tightens, and Mithrun’s ribs creak, pain shooting up his sides as he strains to breathe. “Ahh, yes. Getting rid of your enemies comes first, huh?”
Marcille protests, and it doesn't squeeze any tighter. They go back and forth. Mithrun’s ears are ringing, cold sweat rising on his skin from something beyond the restriction of his breath by the demon’s hand. There’s a flurry of activity, others trying to take down the woman or the demon or both - and, very suddenly, it stops. Behind Mithrun, there are shrieks and protests; with whatever the demon is doing drawing its attention, he manages to drag in a breath, to force his focus enough to catch a complaint from Marcille. The demon huffs back that it's what she wanted. Mithrun struggles, and gets nowhere.
More sounds - something cracking and tearing, and even more terrified screams. Mithrun manages to twist just enough to catch sight of something - what looks like a spider, if one were to replace its head with that of a plush bear, descending on a small woman with short-cropped hair and long, notched ears. He barely glimpses more of the same carnage further down the hall - more elves, each dressed in similar tunics and silken armor, unconscious or trapped by more of the spider-bear-things.
Marcille asks to retreat (something, if Popp catches it through the haze of distraction and exhaustion clouding Mithrun's memory, about stopping someone from decomposing), and panic rises in Mithrun's chest again - even before the demon's free hand settles over Marcille, blocking her view.
Its gaze shifts to Mithrun once more. The longest it's bothered to look at him. Mithrun's throat goes tight. "Until we meet again, Mithrun."
Mithrun starts to protest - and with a swing of its arm, the demon hurls him against the stone floor.
It’s only with a last-minute cast that Mithrun lands-- elsewhere. Somewhere other than splattered on the ground. He’s surrounded by some kind of thick fluid, and his already-struggling lungs protest. He waits as long as he can - until he hears new voices, two men and a woman. Until he doesn’t think he can force himself not to inhale any longer. He feels for an opening, pushes, and tears free, dragging in a pained breath as he breaks free of his hiding place. Someone screams, and he doesn’t even look - just lurches to his feet, muscles protesting every movement.
He forces a step forward, and another, and warm hands grip his wrist. Mithrun stops in place and turns. He’s face to face with a young man, this one with short, rounded ears, dark hair and wide blue eyes. Mithrun’s voice rasps in his throat. “Let go.”
“Where are you going? We need to take a minute to recover and regroup.”
“Right now, when she’s just become a dungeon lord, is when she’ll be easiest to kill.” He pulls against the man’s grip, to no avail. “She’ll be harder for us to deal with with each minute that passes.”
He looks almost concerned. “Even so, it’s impossible to do anything in your state. You’re on the verge of running out of mana.”
Mithrun pulls away, his sights locked down the hall in the direction the demon disappeared. “There’s no time--”
The man’s hold releases, for just a moment - and then there’s an arm around his throat, and Mithrun is pinned between his chest and hips and the flat expanse of the wall. Mithrun protests, but the man only pushes harder. His arm tightens around Mithrun’s throat, and dark spots bloom over his vision.
His words fade, distant, as Mithrun's overtaxed body gives out and the memory goes dark. “If you can’t avoid this, then you don’t stand a chance of beating a demon.”