Tongueless though she may have been, there was nothing wrong with Felicia's vocal chords, so her grunts and noises were clear.  Allan whispered, "excuse me a moment," into Ashe's ear, and then whipped around, the magical blood within him spurring him on.  He flashed over to Naomi's side, kneeling down and forming a point with the fingers of his right hand.  His hands were slim, and all his fingers together were rather less diameter than a soft drink can.<br/><br/>He drew back, and then punched through fabric and orifices, destroying tissue, ramming his hand and forearm up into the demon's body, feeling organs beneath his fingers.  He made a fist within her, taking hold of something wet and squishy and pulsing and gripping it tight.  He stood, dragging her body up on his arm, whipping around to gain momentum before essentially throwing the demon horizontally across the basement, flinging her off his forearm.  He kept his fist closed, so as she went flying through the space, she spooled out entrails like a party favor, wet gory loops of intestine spiraling out behind her until she smashed into the far wall, breaking yet more bones.  Yet even with all that, he knew she wasn't dead.  Even locked in form, he knew she'd be clinging, tough enough to keep going.  But she was much less a threat.<br/><br/>He looked back over at Ashe, dropping what he had of Naomi's and flicking the rancid blood off his arm.  The sudden burst of speed and power had made him famished again.  "You needn't do anything but swallow..." he said, crossing to her and plunging his fangs into her throat, drinking deep.  The angelic blood filled him with yet another sense of energy, completely different from the elf's, and a new set of life-impressions, and he barely remembered opening his own wrist, on his unsullied arm, and pressing it to her lips as he felt her beginning to fade...