#experiment 3069

You jolt from a sound sleep when you hear the sound of footsteps trotting across the hardwood floorboards. Squinting into the inky darkness, your eyes take a moment to adjust before you can make out a small, squat shadow standing next to your bed.

You glance to your side where the dog had once lain, and he is nowhere to be seen.

"Azazel?" You groggily murmur, but the silhouette doesn't move.

Whatever it is stands stock still, and you feel the hair on your arms prickle with fear. Reluctantly, your hand slowly slides to the side of your headboard, blindly feeling for the box of matches without taking your wary eyes off of the figure. Your fingers close around the square package, and you keep your movements slow and deliberate as you fish one out to light the wax candle on your nightstand.

Striking the match, flickering light erupts from the end to paint the figure's visage in gold and shadow. You make out a short and broad muzzle with beady dark eyes, framed by coarse wool.

Were you so exhausted after working today that you had carelessly left not only the sheep's pen open, but the front door as well?

FUCK. Your Master will be furious if he has to round up the animals which are no doubt loose all over the property now.

Sitting up in preparation to try to shoo it out of your room, you draw back the covers and swing your legs over the side of the bed.

"Sorry, but you can't stay here. You're lucky Azazel didn’t-"

The room spins as the sheep opens its mouth in what seems to be slow motion and screams, sending your heart plummeting into icy waters.

It doesn't sound even vaguely reminiscent of an animal- what rips through your eardrums sounds like the long, agonized wail of a dying man's final proclamation. Your hair stands on end and your pulse kicks wildly as adrenaline floods your veins.

You're frozen- your limbs are dead weight as you watch in horror as the creature then grows, its legs extending with bony snaps and pops, bending at impossible angles, its wool sloughing away from flesh. It rises from the ground onto human legs, back hunched as arms hang loosely at its sides, weighted by heavy steel manacles and chains. Slowly, it turns towards you.

'Oh, gods…'

It's not a sheep. It's a man.

You want to scream, but your vocal chords only manage to produce a strangled wheeze of terror.

So emaciated is he that you can count his rib bones. Waxy, sallow skin is loosely draped over his skeleton, and he is wearing the barest of tattered rags like a beggar. It hardly seems necessary for someone so feeble to be bound and shackled.

He trembles, so weak and malnourished, his sunken eyes meeting yours, as though he is pleading for his life. And what precious little life he has left is but a dim glimmer in his glassy gaze.

"How can you sit idly by, and watch him do this to us?" He whimpers an accusation, a single tear spilling free, carving a clean streak down the gaunt contour of his cheek.

The raw fear in his eyes twists an icy thorn into your heart. It is a desperation that you recall seeing in reflected back at you in the mirror before you were rescued- it is that of an animal which has been trapped, cornered, and has nothing left to lose.

Your tongue is numb and thick in your mouth.

"He's ripping our skins off!" He bellows in agony, his fragile frame slumping as a heart-wrenching sob tears from his lungs. "Why are you helping that monster?!"

Chapped, pale lips part with a gasp as he then freezes, still as stone.

Eyes bulging and bloodshot, only his lower jaw dares to quiver in fear. Suddenly, he is silent as the grave- as though he can sense the shadow of death itself swooping in to swallow him alive. Even the walls of the room seem to hold their breath, causing the air around you to grow stale and heavy.

Liquefied fear trickles over your scalp, and your heart thunders in your ears. A dizzying wave of dread floods into your gut as it dawns on you who he is afraid of.

"Because she's such a good girl." A venomous hiss sizzles through the air, and like a tombstone's shadow, the daunting figure of Demiurge towers behind him. Stone cold terror charges through your veins as your Master's lips skin back into a wicked grin, his fangs glinting wetly in the candlelight. The Devil's eyes glow from within, like the furious, white-hot fires produced from the birth of a star.

The sound of a dozen blades being drawn reaches your ears, and the man's eyes beam hopelessly into yours.

"Run." The man whispers, and all ten of your Master's scythed talons burst violently through his chest, and it looks as though he has been impaled on a pair of pitchforks. Hot blood splatters over your face and arms.

**********************************************************************

You can read chapter 1-33 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25904596/chapters/62954236

what better way to kick off my side blog than with the coat of @apocalypticromantic666 's bbi boi Malphas?

Can't think of one 😁

Actually, it was the first coat of the more formal kind I ever made and I'm proud of the result!

The coat is based on the descriptions she gave me, though longer 🙈. The pinstripes are actually stitched in.

The buttons (yes my arrangement of them is not ideal, I know) are gilded.

And I made the lining fluffy warm, so this coat will be a good winter companion.

Have a photo of the lining in the making 🙈

A dusting of stars glitters in the night sky, like a trove of diamonds spilled across a curtain of cobalt velvet. A gentle breeze carries the deep baying cry of a Sabre Wolf across the grasslands.

Demiurge's fire bright suit is limned in silvery moonlight as he leans forward to rest his elbows upon the balcony of the Seventh Floor with a cigarette between his fingers. He slowly exhales, letting curls of smoke escape his lips.

Raising his face to the sky, he looks to his favorite constellation, Gemanarai.

"Malfaxx is the larger of the twins. The purple-giant is approximately 35 light-years from our world and is at least three times as massive as the moon." Ulbert tells him as his claws carefully twist the focuser dial.

Demiurge is unfamiliar with the terminology Ulbert is using, but he does not miss the gleeful grin spreading across his Lord's features as he gazes into the strange device he has poured hours of work into over the span of the past two months. Despite not being entirely sure what his Creator is telling him, he absorbs every detail and commits it to memory. For whatever it is to bring Ulbert such joy, it must be of great importance.

"Please, take a look." He offers, then steps back so Demiurge can peer through the eyepiece of golden telescope himself.

"How remarkable..." Demiurge marvels as he gazes at a ball of fire that burns a deep amethyst purple, like a jewel of flame within inky black space. The other lights surrounding it are but pinpoints, and utterly pale in comparison to its brilliance.

"Isn't it magnificent?" Ulbert gushes.

"Indeed. It is truly spectacular."

"What you are seeing is Gemanarai, one of the brightest star formations, or constellations, in the night sky."

'These... these are the stars?' Even when Demiurge flies so high that his wings slice through the roof of fluffy clouds composing the stratosphere, where the air is so crisp and thin it makes him gasp, he has never beheld the stars in such marvelous detail.

"The other star, Demiurugosu, is brighter, and less massive than its counterpart. Unlike Malfaxx, it burns a deep orange. These stars are so close together that they orbit one another in just a few days. With their close proximity, there's no way for the naked eye to view them as separate entities. Only through a telescope can they be identified as individual stars."

Demiurge takes a step back, and removes his spectacles to polish them with his pocket square.

"Have you heard the stories associated with this constellation?" Asks the Goat of Great Disaster, as he adjusts the viewfinder to pinpoint Demiurugosu.

"I do not believe so, my Lord." He replies, sliding his spectacles back onto the bridge of his nose.

Ulbert motions for his Creation to once again see for himself.

The demon feels his tail swing in an almost violent wag as he's offered yet another peek behind the curtain of mystery that is the heavens he has yet to touch.

This one is even brighter than Malfaxx, and throbs with the heat of rippling gold and scarlet flames.

"Because of its unique formation, shamans and stargazers across the land have named them "the Tiger and the Dragon". This refers to two spirits so wildly different and yet so simultaneously similar who are intricately linked together through destiny. Both the Dragon and the Tiger are Buddhist warrior symbols, with the Tiger lunging straight ahead to tear through his opponents with sheer brute force, all claws and fangs, while the dragon is revered for patience and calculated wisdom from which he derives formidable power from. Both of these locked together represent a balance of power which forms a harmony between Yin and Yang."

"Fascinating. I fear I cannot even begin to adequately express my gratitude for being granted such a deep insight into the nature and history of an astrological body."

Astrology was one of the Supreme Being's secret passions, one of which Demiurge feels privileged to have shared with him firsthand.

The Devil sighs as he scorches the remainder of his cigarette into powdery ashes, which he allows the wind to scatter.

Once again, the unanswerable question gnaws away at him like a corrosive acid.

Why did Lord Ulbert abandon him and his brother? The Tomb and all he had built over the years?

***********************************************************************

Curiously, you pull back the curtain shading the window of the carriage.

The cottage hunkers low into the grassy embankment as though it were trying to hide, but the misshapen slate roof is too large to go unnoticed beneath the low-hanging branches of shaggy white willows. But with the thin silver trail curling from the crooked stone chimney, it is cozy and welcoming.

In the dying light, you can see the pitted, unevenly sized grey stones that compose its walls. As the carriage draws closer, the occasional flash of color - some steel blues, others olive or umber- emerge from the grey stones that look like eyes trying to steal a glimpse of the world.

The grasses of the surrounding rye fields wave and crest as an ocean may on some bright, windswept day. You watch the green hues as they deepen and lighten in the sun's rays.

Something about the land here... it makes your heart feel uplifted with what you can only describe as a sort of nostalgia, the same sort you felt when you had met Demiurge's predecessor.

It is admittedly uncomfortable, being unable to place this alien déjà vu.

"This is where you will be staying for the next week, until you have learned to prepare skins."

"Skins?" You echo, letting the curtain fall in place as you turn to face your Master.

"Indeed. You will be learning how to deflesh and stretch Abelion sheep hides which will then be processed for manufacturing low-tier scrolls." Demiurge clarifies.

Well, that sounds...kinda gross, and not very fun.

A deep bark rings out, and you eagerly sweep back the curtain of the carriage once more to see a large black dog bounding from the field to run alongside the carriage.

"A dog!" You squeal, and decide then that maybe your time here won't be so bad.

"Azazel," He corrects you. "He keeps the sheep in line and ensures none escape or become violent."

'Violent?'

Did he seriously just say the sheep can become violent? From what you understand, sheep are one of the most docile farm animals one can have.

"The sheep are violent?"

"Potentially, yes. As are most animals unwillingly kept in captivity."

Unsure of how to even respond to his assessment of sheep, you are relieved when the carriage finally rolls to a halt. Demiurge is the first to step out, and you hear him mutter a command in a foreign language to the canine. You exit shortly afterwards, and Azazel steps forward from the demon's side to nudge his narrow muzzle beneath your hand.

"Can I pet him?" You ask.

"You may." Your Master gives you permission.

You scratch his head and kneel down to his level, and then he licks your face.

He stands on long, powerful legs and has a compact but substantial body. His coat is short, sleek, and glistening black like a raven's wing but marked with rust red. His ears stand tall and erect and his tail is shortly cropped into a wagging nub.

"I've never seen a dog like this. He's so pretty!" You gush.

"I am not surprised- he is not a commonly kept breed. He is a Doberman, bred to guard and protect. They are employed mainly as attack dogs."

Oh, shit.

"He's an attack dog?"

"When he needs to be." Demiurge says simply. "Come. I will show you your room and where you will be performing your duties.

The Devil utters another command to Azazel, who sits by the front door while he guides you into the cottage, which smells dusty and ancient. The furniture is minimal and well-worn, and the walls mostly bare, save for an old grandfather clock stationed between the den and kitchen.

*********************************************************************

"Great, now they can add another count of destruction of property to the list." You mutter bitterly and stride to the sink to rinse the blade off. Glancing down, you notice there are a few knives waiting to be washed in the stainless-steel bottom. It occurs to you to wonder how accurate you would be if you were to hurl a blade instead.

'Why not?' You shrug, deciding you cannot possibly be in more trouble than you already are.

You select one, turn towards the wall, and draw your arm back, aiming for your mark.

It flies, then embeds a mere half-centimeter from the gash.

'Holy shit.'

This is more than sheer dumb luck. This is some sort of repressed skill.

Apparently, you are an expert knife-thrower. That must be why you were able to twirl, toss and catch a blade without getting hurt.

Suddenly, you have a means of defending yourself, of fighting back with an actual weapon. This... this levels the playing field.

"Hi, um, p-please don't do that." You jump, then whirl around to see what you believe to be a dark elf child standing in the doorway, and he meekly clutches a gnarled wooden staff to his chest. Oddly enough, he's dressed in female clothes; a white pleated skirt and matching vest, thigh-high stockings and tall boots which remind you of the effeminate male slaves who had been trapped in the brothel with you. His blonde hair is shortly cropped to frame boyish features and striking mismatched eyes of sapphire blue and emerald green. "Albedo doesn't like the walls of Nazarick to be marred."

He's being polite, and his shy demeanor disarms you. You wonder if he is also servant.

"I'm sorry. You're right, I shouldn't have done that." You admit sheepishly and turn to bow to him. "I guess I was curious how accurate I could be, but I should probably find somewhere more suitable to practice than the kitchen, huh?"

"You're good with a knife!" He says, and takes a few steps towards you. "Are you a ninja?"

"I don't think so." You reply, and move towards the wall to yank the knife out. "I... well, I really don't know what or even who I am, if I'm being honest. I don't remember."

"H-here, let me fix that for you," he offers, and he points the end of his staff at the mark on the wall. It glows with an eerie, green supernatural light, and the gash then melds together, mending itself like a wound. "There, now Albedo won't even know the difference!"

"Wow, thanks!" You don't know who Albedo is, but you are grateful for his help nonetheless, especially if it keeps you from making yet another enemy. "And sorry, I don't know everyone here yet. Who is Albedo?"

"She's the supervisor of the Guardians. S-she's... very protective of Nazarick." He tells you with a shy downwards tug on his skirt.

Ah, so Demiurge has another above him, other than Lord Ainz. You wonder if he would be in trouble for your behavior and that's why he works so hard to keep you in line.

"There you are." Demiurge's voice is smooth and dark like black velvet as he stalks into the kitchen. 

Speak of the Devil.

"Hello, Mare." Demiurge greets him warmly. To your surprise, the Devil then bows at the waist to him, and the dark elf returns the gesture. Is he a Guardian too?

"Mare here is the Guardian of the Sixth Floor, along with his sister Aura." Demiurge addresses your unasked question with a sharp gaze. "I do hope you have shown him the proper respect he deserves."

"Yes, Master. I have." You assure him and begrudgingly bow to the demon. Demiurge turns back to Mare. "My apologies if my servant has caused you any trouble. Lord Ainz has requested your presence in the throne room."

It's everything you can do not to roll your eyes at your Master for speaking as though you are a puppy who has yet to be housebroken.

"She was no trouble, really! S-she's actually really nice." Mare promises. You decide then and there that Mare is someone you can trust, at least to some degree. "I am pleased to hear it." But Demiurge furtively shoots a scathing glare your way, indicating he knows you threw the peeler at the Shadow Demon, and he is, in fact, far from pleased with you.

"As for you, Pet, I expect you to complete your duties today and then you may return to your room when you are finished or stay here on the Ninth Floor until dinner. In the meantime, do try to behave yourself." He instructs.

You resist the urge to sneer, and nod instead.

"Yes, Master."

Mare falls in line behind Demiurge, and you find yourself wishing you served under the dark elf and his sister instead.

****************************************************************************

"You are aware that something may trigger her memory eventually, though?" Malphas cautions, brushing off and straightening his tailcoat. "And what will you do then?"

Demiurge regards him, and his jaw works as he for the millionth time considers the risks of his actions. "We will have to cross that bridge when we come to it, I suppose."

Malphas raises a brow, unsatisfied with his brother's blasé response, but for now, he lets it slide.

"I thought I had smelled her on you that night." Malphas changes the subject while Demiurge tugs on his surgical gloves. "You've claimed her since then."

"I have." Demiurge admits without batting an eye. "Lord Ainz did not see fit to grant her full protection. But if she carries my scent, no one within these walls who values their life will dare to lay a hand on her. Before I had done so, I caught Greed with his claws around her throat."

"She is most fortunate you stopped him." Malphas says, recalling the grisly fate of one of Demiurge's previous servants who dared to set foot outside of permitted parameters.

Malphas is quiet for a moment, his tail flicking.

"I could smell him on her... it is the barest of traces, but it's there." Malphas says quietly, then draws a staggering breath. "Our Master."

"As can I. It's why I could not allow her to be taken away." Demiurge levels his brother with a solemn gaze. "Save for his Floor, it's all we have left of him."

Demiurge burns in silence as Malphas swallows, then turns away from him to slowly draw a talon through the man's shirt, slicing it neatly down the middle. The tattered, camel-colored satin falls away from his torso like the halves of a shell, revealing the tender flesh beneath.

This is when the human's eyes flutter open and he begins to flop about like a fish out of water, and Malphas snatches a bottle from the shelf above, then rips the gag off his mouth. Fortunately for them both, the man's throat is so raw his shouts of protest are reduced to a hoarse cough. Uncorking the container with his teeth, Malphas tips the bottle into the gag and then seals the cloth over his nose.

It only takes a few seconds before the prisoner's eyes roll back into his skull and he falls limp.

"That was... quick." Malphas remarks with a puzzled expression, and then squints at the bottle. "This is the Valerian root extract, is it not?"

"Better- my own concoction. I discovered a small population of Moon Flowers off the coast of the continent which are remarkably powerful in their sedative qualities. I added a dash of Valerian to it, and it is now concentrated enough to sedate a Djungarian Cave Bear."

"Interesting. I may have to borrow a vial for a tranquilizer." Malphas contemplates. "Styxx is still quite touchy about his hooves. And after getting nailed last week, I fear I'll never sire cubs."

This earns a chuckle from his brother as he threads a needle and then holds it up to Malphas for sterilization. "Did I not tell you to strap his leg down the last time this happened?"

"You did. But again, I ignored medical advice in favor of being too trusting." He concedes and scorches the tip for him. "He's the only Bicorn that I can never fully calm- spells, treats, scent blockers... you name it, I've tried it. No matter what I use, it seems he will only ever see the predator in me."

**********************************************************************

Pandora's actor lounges upon a mountain of assorted gold that shimmers and winks like a galaxy's trove of glittering stars. Flawless in their dexterity, his spindly fingers flip and then catch an embossed coin, minted in the Royal Capital. He takes a moment to examine it; the bust of what he believes to be a war horse with a shortly-cropped mane on its surface glares back at him. A laurel wreath frames a phrase below its muscular neck which is written in a language he is not familiar with.

'So serious!' He wonders who the money's designer was, and why they did not choose something more grand to represent their region. A fierce lion! The blaring sun! So many options, and yet they settled upon a pouty pony? How disappointing.

Still, despite its decorative shortcomings, the Greater Doppelganger has taken great care to shine this fine specimen of craftsmanship and polish each groove to its former glory, so it may be fit to join the rest of his processed currency.

Only the height of perfection may be presented to Lord Momonga for use- anything less is unworthy- nein, an insult.

He hopes his Creator will come visit him again soon; it feels as though it has been ages since he was last graced by his Lord's presence. The Treasury is his home, his kingdom, and while there is nowhere else he would rather be, there are times in which its solitude inevitably gnaws at him.

Until then, he is a soldier awaiting his Kommandant's orders.

With another toss, he allows the coin to fall, and watches as it lands perfectly on its rim and rolls, bounces, then rolls again down the hoard of treasure, making a beeline for a jewel-encrusted chest, crafted from varnished red oak. It circles, round and round, before falling onto its face.

"Ah, ein traveler!" He calls out to it. "Is this where you wish to be?"

Pandora's Actor rises and then surfs down the mountain of gold, his shiny black military boots sending coins flying from his heels like sparks. He lands on his feet and straightens his uniform, then strides to the trunk.

The Greater Doppelganger crouches, settling onto his haunches before picking up the coin in one hand and flicking open the brass latches to the lid with the other.

"Oh?" The coins and bars of raw platinum within have been arranged to one side to make room for what appears to be a stack of glossy-covered booklets. "What is this?"

They are unlike anything he has ever seen. The covers are shiny and quite flimsy compared to the leather-bound volumes lining the shelves of Ashurbanipal. Out of curiosity, he lifts one out to examine the title.

"JEWELS AND JUGS"  is spelled out in slashing red letters across a black background of scattered rubies, diamonds and emeralds.

Ah, it must be about precious stones and vessels of containment! What an odd combination of subjects for reading!

With his interest piqued, Pandora's Actor turns the cover to the first page, and sees ... Oh.

 "Wie shön!"

It is like a painting- but so much clearer; he can count her dusting of freckles, and see, or sense, rather, the softness of each lock of hair. A vision on paper, if anything, he would say.

This must be some form of magic, one of which only the Supreme Ones could hope to achieve!

He beholds a lovely sky-clad lady, who is most tastefully posed- she kneels upon a shield bearing what appears to be a platinum oak tree relief. Multiple strands of black and purple pearls strategically draped around her neck hide her... ahem, more scandalous features as she glances back at him.

His heart skips a beat within his chest as he seemingly locks eyes with her. She is somehow real, and yet she is not. It is as though he holds in his hands a moment frozen in time.

How remarkable!

Pandora's Actor drinks her in; small horns jut from her wild mane of rose red and winterberry blue curls which freely tumble down her back in a dazzling array of color, and her eyes are that of a serpent's- poisonous green with chartreuse flecks and piercing vertical pupils, but there is a whimsical gleam in them that tells him she wears her heart on her proverbial sleeve.

His hollow eyes trace the graceful line of the curvature of her spine as it extends into a long, reptilian tail which curls around her shapely rear.

Blue scales decorate her soft features in a pleasingly asymmetrical pattern, and her full, pink lips are curved in a salacious and knowing smile.

She is curvy, playful... stunning.

Below her image, he reads a caption of what he hopes to be her name, Holly Leonhardt, Miss Midgard.

"Na Hallöchen, Holly, meine blauschuppige Schönheit." He purrs, and loves how her name rolls off of his tongue so fluidly as he gently draws a finger over her cheek.

**************************************************************************************************

A little tribute to @download077​. 💖💖💖

CHAPTER 20 OF EXPERIMENT 3069 HAS BEEN POSTED!

 Demiurge rounds the corner to his Pet's room and deposits her onto the bed, watching her eyelids flutter as she fails to stay awake.

 If the Devil did not have concerns that Greed would find her irresistible, smelling of sex and in a state of utmost fragility, he would have simply abandoned her where she had dropped.

 He then straightens his posture and takes a moment to admire his handiwork. She looks utterly debauched- her tresses spill wildly over her pillows in golden waves which remind him of the rivers of molten lava that flow through the ruins of the Burning Temple, and her cheeks are still alight with a blushing rose glow. Her clothing is in scuffed disarray and his milky seed trickles in a steady stream from between her open thighs. She lies pliant as a newborn lamb, and just as breakable.

 Demiurge licks his lips, and entertains the idea of washing her;  parting her legs, the demon languorously kneels at the foot of the bed and slides in between them, lifting her shapely calves to rest them over his shoulders.

 He begins to lave at her slit, sweeping away the pearly mixture of their release.

 A low rumbling purr rolls through his chest as he grooms her clean with long, soft strokes. She tastes of lilies and peaches with some bright citrus, scorched with his own dark, woodsy spice and musk. It is intoxicating, and he delves his tongue into her folds to steal more. She groans and shifts before him, but her face is serene in her unconscious state.

 Then he smiles- all fangs, in black-hearted delight. Any strength that may have fueled her escape has been drained from her after what he had subjected her to, and no amount of fear-charged adrenaline could buoy her as exhaustion ushers her into a dreamless sleep.

***********************************************