Demons in the Light (Mature Content)

Tales of Jaycynda Ashleana and her associates.

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Jaycy Ashleana
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Demons in the Light (Mature Content)

Post by Jaycy Ashleana »

Friday, Aug 22, late afternoon.

Jaycy shuffled with a little weave toward a decrepit, nondescript building in Dockside, covering her yawning-wide mouth with her hand as she neared the structure that appeared near collapse. Two letters, short in stature, gave the only indication as to the building’s identity – M and O. Those two letters were staked haphazardly to the topmost beam of the door’s frame. She curved fingers around the knob and twisted, pushing the portal in before following with her small form through the resulting space.

The inner space was a marvel of contradictions from the woebegone outside – walls gleamed a cheerful yet pastel yellow. Deep rich cherry planks resonated a warmth from below travellers’ feet. Shelves traversed the lengths of the walls laden with thick expensive papers, lovingly oiled leather-bound journals, and clear bottles of rich, lush colored inks. Tables dotted through the larger-than-it-looked-from-the-outside hosted baskets of all manner of feathers and quills – from eagle and peacock to the most modern ballpoint tip. A door at the opposite end led to the mysterious unknown, protected by the countertop barrier that served double duty as silent gatekeeper and cashier’s station.

The redhead pushed through the seemingly-deserted space in direct route to the door that led beyond. She easily curved around the end of the counter and strolled through to the next room, settling her right hand briefly on the hilt of the sword sheathed at her hip. This room was as drab as the previous was opulent; a dull, gray concrete plastered the walls without pause for a window. A single wooden table and chair graced the centerpoint of the room and a lone filing-type cabinet held its wall upright.

A man stood near the cabinet, a lanky, graying gent with thick-rimmed glasses perched upon his nose. His body half-twisted at the intruder’s encroachment until he ascertained her identity. “Jaycynda,” he greeted fondly (but still with that old-world formality), pulling his hands from the cabinet drawer to spin and face her, clasping those very hands in front of him. He gave her a little half bow over the resulting ball of finger-wiggling flesh.

“Arlen,” she scowled lightly at him, expressing her displeasure further with a one-fingered gesture from the lifted right hand. She grinned a moment later to soften the curse and strode the few steps toward the beckoning chair. “Whachya got for me, hrm?” she asked as she pulled out the chair and dropped gracelessly into it, grunting lightly with the impact. Green-gold eyes shifted from the bare tabletop to the man near the cabinet; a man she had known for the last decade or more. He had become her surrogate father, her protective-but-chaste guardian, her mentor. She had become, likewise, the pride in his eyes. Of all the men in her life, their relationship had never been marred by sexual tension and they loved each other all the more in that. Jaycy liked to believe that Psly knew all her secrets, but more she knew that Psly had access to all of her secrets. He just never chose to delve into them.

Arlen, however, knew each and every secret. He’d known, too, of the circumstances surrounding the appearance of this version of the redhead; he’d been tasked with confirming a seamless transition from old to new. Further, he had sworn never to tell of his knowledge or even involvement. To this day, he had kept that promise.

He loosened his hands, facing back toward the cabinet and rifling through the folders and documents cleanly organized within. “There are only a few, my dear, which is probably well considering your upcoming … challenge.” The frown went unseen as he directed it toward the papers but he was unable to keep the concern from creeping into his voice. “At least two Daril might complete on his own, in fact. He is growing restless.”

“Mmm,” she yawned again, bobbing her head slightly up and down. “Mmm. Lemme see ‘em. Any for Psly an’ I?” Elbows dropped to the table as she leaned forward, flicking her gaze from his back to the blank surface. A foot tapped the ground underneath, seemingly impatient for the production of all she wanted to see. In reality, the little jolts helped assure her remaining consciously awake while she sat there. Another night had come and gone with another nightmare and that meant, again, no sleep for the redhead. No matter how exhausted Morgan and Lesinda had made her.

He released a soft sigh, crossing the close distance and settling a trio of folders gently on the tabletop. “The last one is something that you might be able to accomplish quickly. Children are being kidnapped in Bryony.” The attempt to break the news of the job’s location gently failed miserably; her head snapped up and she snatched at that folder first, the two potential assignments for her retained mage left ignored and unopened.

She sheared the top half of the folder from its mate in her haste to uncover the documents within, exhaustion forgotten in the sudden focus on the material. “Two… girls … no boys …” she muttered, fluttering through the papers. “Aye,” she declared swiftly and firmly without taking her eyes from the words in front of her. “We’re taking this one.”

Arlen shook his head from his post slightly behind and to her left. He knew that was going to be her reaction but he also knew she would have been hurt if he hadn’t honestly shown her what she asked for. The facts of the case, too, were such that time might be truly of the essence and, well, they would likely be finished before she needed to return for the challenge. The problem, though, were the nightmares that seemed to be gaining in strength and horror each evening she attempted sleep.

“My dear,” he softly began, reaching out to rest a hand lightly on her left shoulder.
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“… do you really want to do this?” she finished in a cold drawl, perfectly-manicured nails digging into the thick bomber jacket to prick pale flesh below.

Sudden fists clenched the papers before Jaycy as she froze stock-still in her seat. “Let go of me,” she hissed, staring straight before her. A ripping filled the air as claws shred the documents in her grasp. “Get out of here before I kill you.” The words were soft – almost too soft, too calm.

Dawn Shadowsbane, the dragonelf, laughed quietly behind her, releasing the pressure just enough to tickle nails toward the sitting redhead’s neck. Tips brushed over the skin before she pinched harshly, setting nails to break the surface again and draw pricks of blood. “Do get up, my dear,” she crooned, exerting hard pressure on Jaycy’s neck, enough to cause the woman to stand. “Face me, Jaycynda. Look at me,” she commanded, twitching nails ever deeper.

Jaycy slowly wheeled to meet her nemesis, green-gold eyes locking coldly with red-gold. A gasp of pain escaped as Dawn suddenly released her neck; however, the relief was short-lived as the witch clamped onto Jaycy’s chin instead, drawing fresh drops. She swooped in, then, landing a cruel, demanding kiss on Jaycy, forcing the woman to open her mouth in mute compliance of Dawn’s wishes.

Dawn’s mistake, however, was in thrusting her tongue into the other woman’s mouth, lashing the inside of her cheeks. Jaycy bit down sharply on the invading muscular tissue, slicing clean through it with fanged teeth. The sharp tang of blood filled her mouth and she recoiled, forcing the offending organ from her mouth and sending it flopping onto the floor.

Dawn staggered back, a hand coming up to wipe at the thick waves of slick blood that emerged from her gaping mouth as she coughed under the onslaught of liquid sliding down her throat. In that pause in her attack, the dragonelf’s hand fell, cleanly severed at the wrist by Jaycy’s swiftly-drawn steel short sword. Red-gold eyes widened to saucers with surprise but Jaycy’s retaliatory strikes came without pause.

She came in toward the winged woman for another strike, sending blade biting to and then through the knee joint with a sickening crunch. The blade spun and flashed in the artificial light with a swiftness that she rarely displayed in the Arena but exemplified why she was once called Mistress of Blades with the Red Fist mercenary company. The blow sent Dawn crumbling to the ground, screeching. She managed to keep her torso upright by sheer force of will and half-unfurled wings, the ridges crushed against the walls of the small room.

Her singular remaining hand rose before her face in an ineffectual block and it joined its mate on the ground, blood shooting in short spurts from the stumps as the heart continued its incessant pumping of the fluid through her cardiovascular system. The howl remained unceasing, too, as Jaycy struck again and again.
With a guttural growl, the redhead lunged forward and plunged the short sword through Dawn’s stomach, piercing flesh and fat and organ and fat and flesh as she leaned into the attack, sending the blade clean through the other woman’s body. She gave a vicious twist of the blade as it spit Dawn, yanking it down and through the other woman’s lower half until it became free at the apex of her thighs. The blade whipped free, suddenly without resistance, and she turned her wrists to hack instead at the still-supporting leg at the very top of her inner thigh.

With so little space between Dawn’s legs, Jaycy revised and began to saw the blade back and forth across skin and bone, blade sliding neatly through the joint and separating it from the torso with a tidy little pop. Unsupported, Dawn toppled and crashed onto her wings, the sick crunch indicative of broken ridges. Stunted arms waggled wildly in the air as she let loose another horrible cry of pain.

Jaycy closed again on the form and raised the blade over her head before bringing it slashing down onto Dawn’s already-ruined flesh. She hacked strips of skin and meat from the wretched torso, spraying tacky red and white vittles over walls and furniture and herself. Piece by piece she cut down the dragonelf, working her way from bottom to top. Green-gold eyes flashed as she painted a grisly abstract portrait on her black fighting leathers and face with the crimson pigment. The very air sung with the breath from each swing of the short sword.

The right arm fell at the elbow after another harsh slash, followed by the left arm. Shoulders were separated next from the now-silent, too-silent, ruin of a body. Leathery wings became ribbons with each swipe of the blade through their thin membranes before she simply sliced off the harder ridges. Another scream finally rent the air, deadened by the thick concrete of the walls; a hellish sound torn from Jaycy’s throat as she resumed her butchery of the corpse at her feet.

She paused a brief moment, finally, but only to assess the ruin beneath her. The head remained intact, pale flesh and red-gold hair saturated with the deeper red of Dawn’s lifeblood. Throwing the sword to the ground, Jaycy leapt forward and pulled the offending head to her, hissing. She dug suddenly-shifted claws into the glazed eye sockets and popped them, snarling a dark smile as translucent ooze washed over her hands. She pushed deeper, heedless of hard bone that stood in her way, and tore and pulled the head to bites and pieces, allowing them to drop to the floor as they became too small and slippery to grasp.

She finally howled her supremacy, head rolling back with the pleasure of her enemy’s – and somewhat daughter’s – vital fluids splattered upon her. She crouched down, digging and wriggling fingers in the sodden wrecked mass of goo she’d created. She surveyed her work.

She blinked. The only recognizable bits, a short distance away, were a patch of short gray hair and a mangled, crimson-coated pair of thick-rimmed glasses.
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