Demons (Damirae)

Chapter Fifty-Four

Giving the scenery a glance, Damian raised an eyebrow at Raven.

"Tt. This is hardly a location teeming with animals- it's quite the opposite of a forest. What are we here for?"

Ankle boots clicking as they hit the concrete, Raven stepped out of the purple, allowing it to disappear in a flurry of purple. Tucking her hands in to the pockets of her trousers (unobtrusive black jeans), Raven tossed her head back, removing the hair for her eyes, as she surveyed the scene. Well, when she'd searched for the location of the bloody creatures, she reckoned her findings would be something like this: a damp, dark corner of Gotham on the verge of crumbling decorated with the shells of streetlights and mail boxes. These creatures liked to dwell in carcasses.

Smirking at her companion, Raven said, "Found a nest the other day. I thought it was a good idea to release some of that pent up energy. Have a little fun.", her eyes sparked at the last word, prompting understanding to greet Damian.

The ex-assassin felt around in the air, his senses searching for what the demoness was referring to. Pollution- no. Dampness- no. Blood- eh...no, but close...very close...AHA! That suffocating aura of emptiness and death, suffocating and nauseating like being choked by a decomposing corpse.

A malicious grin of his own forming, Damian turned to Raven, "You have a commendable interpretation of the term 'fun'."

Winking concurrence, Raven gestured for Damian to lead the way between the rotting houses, stepping over jagged pipes, glass bottles and the like and dodging junkies and drunkards without a thought. Several rat-riddled alleyways later, the part-demons stood face to face with an average, ramshackle building equipped with wooden boards shutting its eyes and a faded self-advertisement for 'Favour's Fashions' (at least, Damian presumed as much, most of the writing had peeled away). And, from that regular, decrepit shop -or what once was a shop- emanated a foul aura that oozed on to the street like sewage. The aura of creatures as putrid as the aura they released.

Quasidemons... of sorts...distantly linked to the two beings surveying the outside of their nest- well, many millennia ago. From creatures of formidable majesty that wielded respect and fear with the grace of druids amongst trees, they fell. Reduced to bloodthirsty, broken spirits feeding on the souls of meek humans after their departure, through the bodies of other departed humans.

Quite like Night Children (well, they stemmed from the same root: demons) but with a more...wraithlike character.

Bloody Wights.

In a playful, chilling voice, like a taunting child's singsongy phrases, Raven said, " I think they feel us."

Shoes sinking in to murky puddles as he stalked towards the door, Damian smiled, "Why don't we pay our respects?".

***

No pulse.

Just a cold lump of meat, hanging in a cold cavern, suspended by cold vines. That's all Raven's fist closed upon as she stared through the bottomless pits within the meat's head- so dark, they spurred on the blackness dwelling within her soul: that creeping darkness wouldn't get far in her mind though, her mental walls were too strong. The whiteness of it's eyes had been consumed by the Wight and the mind of it had been controlled by the deformed creatures also, yet that fist-sized hunk of meat didn't stir.

The man was dead as dead could be. His insides were slick, coated in a wet, mucusy substance, making holding purchase a slight difficulty. Still, Raven's fist lay buried within the man's chest, shattered bones scratching her forearms as her fingers wrapped around the useless organ between his lungs, tugging a centimetre.