To Dream of Darkness (closed)

(Closed RP between Mercy and Inner Demon)

With every passing moment, his designs advanced further. There were no defeats; merely setbacks to be brushed aside like so many spider webs. After all, his enemies were but mortal flesh, and victory after victory would be needed to sustain their efforts, whereas he could act with the patience of eternity, and would only need to triumph once…

Nevertheless, the malevolent astral entity known as the Demon of Silence had grown restive. His enemies were many, but they were scattered. However, the secrecy of his designs would not be able to be maintained indefinitely, and should his foes somehow manage to present a unified opposition, matters could become unacceptably problematic. He needed a weapon, something that would allow him to strike quickly, and eliminate potential obstacles before they became mindful enough to defy him…

Drifting along currents of human thought which flowed through the astral plane like rivers, the Demon sought out thought patterns that would suit his purposes, minds already stained with blood and death, until he found one that caused a horrific rictus of a smile to spread across his inhuman visage. A trained killer, living a life of violence and turmoil; yes, this one would do nicely.

Lurking in the shadows of subconsciousness, the psychic predator waited until his intended target slept, when the conscious mind relented, giving control over to the dreams and subliminal desires of unconscious. Judging the moment to be right, he sent a single whispered word drifting to her mind on the winds of nightmares.

“Mercy…”

A cool evening breeze wafted in through the open French doors of Andres Knightfall's Brazilian abode. The spacious and luxuriously decorated master bedroom played host to a custom made bed, a good bit larger than a standard king. In the center of the bed, splayed out on gray sheets of the finest quality Egyptian cotton, was Mercy Sheridan.

The sheet slipped down, revealing a midriff-baring black camisole, as she turned onto her back. Splaying one arm out to the side, palm up, her fingers twitched slightly. A small sound of interrupted contentment slipped from her mouth as she flipped onto her stomach, her dream state becoming unrestful.

With an active imagination and high creative drive, Mercy was often host to outlandish and overactive dreams in a dreamscape that was rife with action and flourishing with her own creativity.

A grassy clifftop presented itself in her mind, filling with the scent of sea in the air and the slightest hint of flowers blooming. It was a cliffside in Ireland, one that was a particular favorite of hers as it looked out on the breaking waves in front of her, and hills that lead down to a small town behind. It was a place of solace, a place of rest, a place of her own secrets.

"Mercy..." The gruff voice with the Irish brogue called her name. Brady Calhoun, a man who was as mysterious as any she'd ever met. A colleague over the years and one of the select few who she would ever call her friend. And here he was, clad in jeans and a black leather motorcycle jacket as he approached her.

"Brady?" She responded tentatively as grass moved beneath her hands as she shifted, turning to look at him. Looking briefly down at herself, she saw that she was clad in simple dark blue skinny jeans and a loose black t-shirt with the name of some band emblazoned across the chest. Not her usual attire, but nothing out of the ordinary.

Her body stiffened as he approached, something off in his gait. He may be injured, he may need help, she was unsure of what was going on at this moment, having been pulled completely into her own dreamscape. An intricate illusion had been built up around her, insidious in the nature of its reality.

The Demon repressed a smile as he strode across the mindscape of Mercy Sheridan. It was always fascinating, the form that such environments would take. Almost invariably, victims retreated to someplace they felt safe, or that had significant meaning for them. In so doing, they revealed much of themselves, and this was knowledge that could be used against them.

Nevertheless, he could sense a degree of tension in his potential victim, despite the fact that she was in surroundings of her own construction and that he was wearing the form of someone she had associated with trust. Clearly, she had the instincts of a hunter. Still, wariness could be exploited as easily as vulnerability, if one knew how. It simply required different tactics.

“Hello Mercy,” the Demon spoke, his voice rolling out in the Irish brogue of Brady Calhoun. “I am glad you could meet me here.” He walked up to her slowly, casually, his arms resting at his sides, to appear as nonthreatening as possible. “I’m afraid I’m in a bit of trouble and I need your help.” He stopped an arm’s length from Mercy before he continued. “Could you be a good lass and die for me?” With that, his eyes turned jet black, and a survival knife appeared in his right hand as he lunged for Mercy’s throat.

She was taken aback by the sudden attack, the sudden betrayal of a man whom she had considered not only a friend, but trustworthy; the hardest attained rank in Mercy's eyes. The sharp, serrated edges of the knife he held in such an expert grip were on a collision course for the soft tissue of Mercy Sheridan's throat.

Her first reaction was to allow him to get in close and apply pressure strikes, using her telekinesis as a shield to save herself from injury. At the last possible seconds, she found that the fault in this strategy was that her telekinesis was no longer functioning for some, she was sure related, reason.

Twisting at the last moment, the edges of the knife tore across the top of her shoulder, almost cutting through tendon before the man she had thought was Brady came to stand behind her, menacing. Mercy stood still for a moment, much as prey does in the face of a predator, trying to quell the instincts by hiding in plain sight.

Only she was doing nothing of the sort, she was attempting to gather her rage in so that she did not kill him. Answers were needed, and answers were not supplied by those who were dead.

Turning around, she leaped forward, her arms outstretched as she went for his knees in order to take him down to the ground. Successful in managing that, she slid an ever-present knife from her boot and held it to the creature's throat. "What are you and who sent you?"

“Brady” grunted as he was slammed into the ground, caught off-balance by his intended victim’s catlike reflexes. Despite the blade pressing dangerously close to his throat, he laughed, a deep, inhuman sound that echoed across the mindscape as his solid black orbs fixed on Mercy’s. This time when he spoke, there was no trace of the Irish brogue in his voice.

“Who am I? Were you not the one who named me as I approached?” A mocking grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “As for who sent me, the answer is you, my dear Mercy. It was the darkness and death in your very soul that summoned me to you. Like calls to like, after all.”

As he spoke, an unwholesome wind began to blow in from the direction of the sea, bringing with it an ominous-looking fog. Faint, indistinct voices could almost be made out from within its roiling mass, although no words could identified.

A sudden crisp chill permeated the air as the ambiance changed rapidly with no pre-warning. The occurrence took her attention off of her assailant enough to allow him to flip the hold, pinning her on the ground with her arms on either side of her head, palms facing up. With every intent of fighting back and utterly annihilating him, Mercy was preparing to unleash a torrent of telekinetic energy when her eyes started going dark.

An insidious creeping darkness began to haze the edge of her vision, the edge of her mind. His visage grew blurry as the heels of her feet slammed fruitlessly against the ground, growing weaker and weaker with every round. "Not like you." Her eyes had gone almost fully black, defenses weakening as she uttered the words with a feral growl.

A leering grin spread across the illusory Brady’s face as her growled defiance echoes across the mindscape. “Your eyes are truly ravishing, my dear. You should let the monster within you bubble to surface far more often.” He stood, pulling her roughly to her feet with him, turning her so that she faced the fog which was rolling in from the direction of the sea. “However, if this is still insufficient evidence for you, then you need not take my word for it. Perhaps theirs,” he gestured at the fog with one hand, “will carry more weight.”

As the roiling, unwholesome mist approached, figures began to appear within its mass. As the unctuous cloud grew closer, these figures could be seen with great distinction. They were an eclectic collection of semi-transparent people. Men and women, young and old, they floated forward, their eyes fixed on Mercy. Some of their faces held expressions of deep sorrow, others of burning anger, and even some of pained confusion. However, the one way in which they were alike was in their speech. A multitude of hollow voices repeated one word, over and over again. “Why?”

“Do you not recognize them?” Brady queried. “I suppose you might not. You have not met many of them, in the flesh, but your darkness has irrevocably marked each of their lives. These are the ones you have left behind, sweet Mercy, the children, parents, friends, and lovers of those who have met their end at your hands. Perhaps you should ask them what the difference between us is.”