Log:Disarmed

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Disarmed
Emitter	Deirdre
Players	Atalanta, Clash, Pride, The Traveller
NPCs	The Bacchante, various maenads, one unlucky son of a bitch
Place	Simonson Park
Time (IC)	August 23rd, 2012
Time (OOC)	August 23rd, 2007

Simonson Park is a very big place. It's very easily the kind of place where you could find a secluded area to do whatever private sort of thing you want to do, and where you would be unlikely to be caught doing such a thing. And this would be the case for whomever has secluded themselves in a particular copse of trees on the far side of the park, except for the bloodcurdling scream that emanates from it. Oops. Not the stealthiest.

Atalanta isn't doing anything especially private. In fact, she's currently in a treetop, having leapt there from the top of a building some distance off. She clings there, sure-footed (and -handedly), looking out over the park, probably looking for the next place to leap at.

Irene is reclined under a tree and is reading a book, rather thick-lensed glasses perched on her nose, while munching on an apple. In her experience, nobody comes to bother her while she's doing this, possibly because it seems dangerously insane. The sound of a scream makes her look up mid-bite, folding over a corner of one page of the book.

Clash is not, it should be noted, anywhere -near- the park. The problem (or maybe blessing?) is the fact he could hear what was going on from a mile away. In a fast food restaurant, in fact, but we'll not get into that. It's Clash who's on scene as it is, anyway, not very stealthy themselves as they sprint into the park, vaulting the fence. And, er, Irene as well, landing in a crouch a few yards away, before running once more. "'Scuse me!"

Brady just... sighs. Can't even pick up guys in a park without being interupted. Not that he was. Really. He was just cutting through the park instead of going around it on his way to the store. Ducking behind a secluded tree, he pulls his mask out of a pocket and ties it on before pulling his shirt over his head. Half a costume is better than none and anyway, it's really not obvious what he's wearing when he turns into something. In this case, rubber, thanks to the rubberband he wears around his wrist.

Various people in the park are looking uncomfortable. Most of the people with children are edging toward wherever their cars are parked. If they don't have cars, they're looking around for some mass transit. Another horrible scream comes from the copse of trees, though this one is muffled halfway through.

Atalanta aims herself at the sound of the scream, hurtling down from the tree, and possibly -through- some branches on the way down.

Irene adjusts her sunhat after straightening up, dropping the book into her purse and then wedging the purse into the crook of a nearby tree. After this she navigates by sound, aiming towards the source of the screaming.

Brady stretches upward to get some altitude then takes a step toward the sound of the scream. A hundred foot step. Then another, each leg stretching out and his body flowing after. Shouldn't take long to get to the screamer.

It's nice, too, when Clash is one of the saner-looking people on scene. That's always a worry, ever since he decided this whole disguise bit was a good idea. It's probably not too long before he's at the right spot, even if the grass probably doesn't appreciate the sprint; depending on the details, he might even see what's up a bit before he gets there. Since being able to see through things is -neat-.

The scene is strange, to say the least. The secluded area is playing host to a gathering of women, apparently. This is, however, no bridal shower or tupperware showing or whatever stereotypical hen party one might like to imagine. It is, instead, a number of women dressed in hooded robes of wine-colored silk, chanting quietly under their breath in a foreign tongue. At the center of the little clearing, a picnic table has been made into a makeshift altar. The man tied to it, who looks quite upset, is probably the one who was screaming. Judging from the gag, anyway. Standing before him at the head of the table is a woman in more elaborate robes, with her hood lowered and hair intricately plaited. It is safe to presume that she is the leader.

Atalanta lands in a three-point crouch outside the circle. "So this is either the luckiest man alive or the unluckiest." She stands to her full height, hands on her hips. "Care to tell me which one this is?" You must specify a number as an initiative modifier.

As Irene comes past the underbrush, tugging a little to get her pants leg free of something with stickers and thorns on it, she looks up to see - god damn! she thinks, they're getting the organization wrong! If this is some kind of rite they should be wearing white or going skyclad and you DON'T do that in a park.

She pushes her glasses up her nose and looks at Atalanta for a moment, before lifting her voice to offer, helpfully, "Human sacrifice usually taints it anyway; if you're trying to do an initiation you should really get private land, you're going to freak out the passerby." Vague wave at herself and Atalanta: "Like so."

"Wow," Clash notes as he sprints into the clearing, hopping to a stop, and staying light on his feet. From the look of things, he might need to act quickly! "Yeah, er, this doesn't exactly look like a ren faire or something." Inwardly... he's somewhat amazed at how many metahumans showed up. Well, he's assuming Atalanta is one. She might just be a six-foot weirdo girl who likes togas. You never know.

"I'm guessing unlucky." Pride steps to the side of the picnic table and flows back down into a more normal-sized looking... rubber man. As opposed to an abnormally sized one. "So this is what we're going to do... We're goign to untie the nice gentleman and you ladies are going to go home and watch Clash of the Titans instead. Sounds good? Good." He makes shooing motions. Get to it.

There is a low murmur among the crowd of women, the chanting ceasing for a moment. The leader lifts a goblet from the table, holding it high above her head. "Dionysus! King of Mystery! Render unto thy servants the strength of a thousand lions! Smile upon your bakkhai!" She knocks back the fluid in the goblet, licking her wine-stained lips. She is quite beautiful, but there is a feral cast to her features. Her eyes are like those of a predatory animal. Ignoring the sacrifice for the moment, she gestures to her followers. "Destroy the interlopers!"

Being what she is, Atalanta recognizes what's going on here nearly immediately. "Oh, come -on-!" she says, before assuming a ready stance. Her eyes are as much on the man on the 'altar' as the women, just in case.

"Oh /shiiiiiiit/" is Irene's comment, eyes going wide as her hands clench and go to her sides, head raising upwards and eyes widening.

"Right. Well," Clash notes, crouching a moment. "First task, free the sacrifice. Second task, try to... contain things without -hurting- anyone." Which he has no problem saying aloud; it is, after all, the most obvious sort of plan. And from the sound of it, it's not like the congregation is exactly in a mood to -talk-. She also doesn't ask if anyone present is actually, like, competent in a fight... she only knows Pride, and even then barely. But she figures she can pick up the slack. Maybe.

Pride shakes his head. "Somehow? I just knew you were going to say that. I must be psychic. Oh, by the way... I'm Pride. Nice to meet you." That's more to the other good guys but if the mad drunk women want to say hello, they're certainly welcome to. The matte finish of rubber begins to gleam and shine as his feet sink into the soft ground, gold being a very dense metal. "By the way, what's a bakkhai? Some kind of priestess? Sacred whore?" Hey, it's Dionysius.

Initiative Listing:
Atalanta ........... 27 (7)
Irene .............. 19 (8)
Clash .............. 16 (2)
Pride .............. 15 (6)
The Bacchante ...... 14 (2)
Maenadsx25 ......... 13 (5)

The maenads (for that is what the robed women are) begin to mutter unintelligibly, and turn to advance on our heroes. Their leader just eyes them with a hungry gaze, then reaches down to the table and... tears the sacrifice's arm right off with her bare hands. "Death to those who oppose your will!" she calls to the sky, lifting the severed limb into the air. The guy on the table, understandably, screams about as loudly as possible from behind the gag.

Atalanta has to gape for a second. But just for a second. She turns toward part of the circle and brings her hands together in a thunderous clap. Four of the cultists are literally lifted from their feet and sent tumbling into the underbrush to land in a heap.

GAME: Irene spends a hero point.

"Shit!" Irene repeats, raising a hand in front of her in a swooping sort of motion. Blackness shimmers behind her, stretching out through the air like tendrils of shadow -- wrapping around the man's chest and likely not helping his blood pressure. However, they form a loose plug-like shape over the injury, squeezing down tight and anchoring themselves on the far end of his chest.

GAME: Clash rolls 1d20 + 7: 7 for a total of 14.
GAME: Clash spends a hero point.
GAME: Clash rolls 1d20 + 7: 20 for a total of 27.
GAME: Deirdremitter awards a hero point to Clash.

Clash, for the record, doesn't say anything else. Whatever hesitance he has is broken by the sight, and the sound- this woman obviously isn't a normal person. And obviously they can, presumably, take a punch. Which is fortunate; he sometimes likens himself to hitting like a speeding train, and in this case, it's rather accurate; sprinting forward, from zero to 100 in three almost blindingly-fast pace, leading in with a straight punch at the Bacchanate's cheek. Simple, and brutal, striking with a resounding CRACK. Whether it's the noise of impact, or the sound barrier breaking is harder to say.

... His opponent, however, actually manages to take it. Recoiling briefly, and slightly less -pretty-, but still up and aware. "Pick on someone your own size," Clash spits.

GAME: Pride rolls 1d20 + 9: 20 for a total of 29.

"Without hurting anyone?" Pride asks, turning to give Clash a look. We're so far beyond that and he didn't even start yet. Gods, that has to hurt. "Don't worry, sir. I'm sure they can reattach it." And now someone has stopped, or slowed, the spurting, the guy might even live long enough for the doctors to try. One less worry. Ooooo, nice shot! "Nice shot cutey." he tells Clash and sort of pauses as the head bitch doesn't go down for the count. Huh. Nothing to do but step over and slam her as well, one golden fist lashing out to nail her solidly. "Strike two, one more and you're out." From his mouth to Dionysus' ear.

GAME: Pride rolls 1d20 + 10: 12 for a total of 22.

The Bacchante looks irate. I mean, this is not particularly surprising, as she has taken two serious hits to the face. "You are strong, but the Great Mesmerizer is stronger." With that, she drops the goblet... and the arm... and rears back. With a bestial growl, she lands a mean right hook right in Pride's face. There's a sickening sort of -crack- as she connects with his metal skin, and she grins darkly as he spins with the impact and collapses to the ground, unconscious.

GAME: Clash rolls 1d20 + 15: 4 for a total of 19.
GAME: Clash rolls 1d20 + 15: 4 for a total of 19.
GAME: Irene rolls 1d20 + 8: 20 for a total of 28.
GAME: Irene rolls 1d20 + 8: 8 for a total of 16.
GAME: Atalanta rolls 1d20 + 10: 11 for a total of 21.
GAME: Atalanta rolls 1d20 + 10: 2 for a total of 12.
GAME: Atalanta rolls 1d20 + 10: 4 for a total of 14.

Maenads are unpleasant. That is sort of the gist one might get, at this point. They're running at the vigilantes now with eyes wild with mania, hands twisted into a claw-like shape by sheer madness. A few of them swing at Clash, all missing, and Irene manages to admirably dodge a few blows. Atalanta gets scraped up by some fingernails, but it's not a big deal. Just some shallow cuts.

Atalanta grabs a random cultist by her robe, whirls and flings her at their not-so-glorious leader. Cultists do not make good missiles, however, and she merely bounces off, rendered unconscious by the impact. The leader barely seems to notice.

Irene is recognizing these things now that she's had a moment to think. Cheap self defense classes come back and she rolls around one's screeching claw, ducking under another's effort to grasp her between drunken fists. She takes two steps back, hair askew, and cups her hand before her at about waist level - "Darkness!"

That same sort of glossy black stuff currently keeping Sacrifice Man from bleeding out hisses forwards like the sands of an hourglass, sending Maenads sprawling.

GAME: Clash rolls 1d20 + 7: 14 for a total of 21.
GAME: Deirdremitter awards a hero point to Clash.

Clash blinks as he's called 'cutie'... okay, he really shouldn't be surprised there, but for all the act, it's still easy to forget. Not that there's time for witty comments, as Pride is quite firmly clobbered in turn. "Ngh-" The punch, in fairness, is not quite as dramatic this time... but Clash certainly seems to have had at least some training as a boxer, even above and beyond his obvious superhuman talents. He doesn't even seem to notice being swarmed by cultists, almost, with a low and straight punch, at the villainess' midsection. It connects hard once again, but to no great effect. "Get Pride clear, if you can manage it!"

GAME: Atalanta rolls 1d20 + 10: 11 for a total of 21.
GAME: Irene rolls 1d20 + 8: 13 for a total of 21.
GAME: Atalanta rolls 1d20 + 10: 13 for a total of 23.
GAME: Irene rolls 1d20 + 8: 20 for a total of 28.
GAME: Atalanta rolls 1d20 + 10: 8 for a total of 18.
GAME: Clash rolls 1d20 + 15 3x: 31, 20, 19

The Bacchante recoils from Clash's blow and swings wildly at him, but misses, aiming too far to the right. The maenads, meanwhile, descend on the group again. Irene suffers a particularly unpleasant attack as one of the crazed women lifts the sacrifice's severed arm and starts swinging it at the sorceress. None of the cultists connect, however, and they are all rapidly looking more and more crazed.

Atalanta goes back to the old tried and true. She takes one step back, pivots, and aims at a likely cluster of cultists. Once more, her hands come together, and five opponents fly back under the concussive wave of sound and force.

"Aaah!" Irene shouts as that arm is swung at her, ducking low out of reflex and to avoid being swatted with ischemic tissue. That wouldn't be very handy to have on your skin, after all! Another Maenad lunges at her with claws and she rolls to the side, landing on her back -

And another blast of that hissing black sand erupts forwards, sending another five of the psychotic women sprawling. This, at least, may prevent further damage to the severed member.

GAME: Clash rolls 1d20 + 7: 13 for a total of 20.
GAME: Clash rolls 1d20 + 30: 19 for a total of 49.

This is just... weird. Such outright bloodlust. "Keeping you up-," Clash states, ducking back a moment, assessing the situation. His blows on Bacchante haven't amounted to much... and while wearing her down is a good strategy, there's already two wounded present, one severely. And once more, he punches - in a a feint. A darting jab, and when she moves to dodge, he follows through with her other hand, grappling her wrist, and violently wrenching her to the ground, kneeling atop the woman's back. Held fast for the moment, but who knows how long that will last.

GAME: Atalanta rolls 1d20 + 10: 4 for a total of 14.

The Bacchante, for her part, attempts to headbutt Clash from her prone position, shrieking glossolalia of some sort. This is largely ineffectual and does not connect. The other maenads scramble about in their manic state, clawing viciously, but only one of them manages to connect - she hits Atalanta, leaving a shallow cut on the girl's arm.

GAME: Atalanta rolls 1d20 + 10: 2 for a total of 12.

"Ow! That hurts!" Atalanta's hand lashes out to grab the cultist that struck her by the robe and the Greek swings her captive around to hit another cultist hard enough to knock her flat. A subsequent attack with her makeshift club misses its target, and the crazed woman is slammed into the ground instead. "Oops." Atalanta drops her victim.

"You /little bitches,/" Irene says, raising a hand up - she reflects for a moment that she needs to work on this situation. It's not intimidating at all, she figures, to just swear at them. Another wave of sand arcs out, slamming into the remainder of them, making the heap of stunned and wounded frenzied females grow visibly.

GAME: Clash rolls 1d20 + 30: 13 for a total of 43.
GAME: Clash rolls 1d20 + 7: 7 for a total of 14.

"You know," Clash says, tugging on Bacchante's arm, holding her firm for a brief moment more. "You, really, need to... simmer down! All your-" She doesn't get farther than that, however; her grip is like a vice, but her opponent is almost as strong. And more willing to fight back. She spins free, Clash left briefly reeling; he recovers quickly, but not enough to keep his sudden punch from flying wild.

Pride groans and reaches up to rub his face. "Did anyone get the license plate number of that lesbian?" he mutters without opening his eyes. How embarassing. Not to mention painful. Slowly he cracks one eyelid open and winces. Bright. Headache. But he's a hero damn it! And look, blue skies. Nothing but blue skies. He sees. Well, and clouds. Which seems like a good idea. Flesh and blood and costume become fluffy and white and floats upward till the vaguely humanoid form is hovering just above the ground. Punch this bitch.

For a moment, the Bacchante just smiles. "You are strong warriors. I will relish the opportunity to destroy you. But now, clearly, is not the time." Giving Clash an utterly mad look, she... leaps. High into the air, so high as to be inhuman. Over the trees she goes, bounding at an astonishing speed toward the horizon. Our heroes are left in a clearing with... twenty-five unconscious madwomen and a guy and his severed arm.

GAME: Deirdremitter awards a hero point to everyone.
<Init> Deirdremitter clears the initiative list.

"If I run this guy to the hospital, will this binding thingy come off?" Atalanta asks. "Unless one of you can move faster than me?" "Well... shit." But at least Pride got one good hit in. He briefly contemplates speeding after her but quickly disregards the idea. He's not that fast. "Someone call an ambulance." Yes, you. The spectator over there being pointed at by the cloud. Wispy feet touch the ground then settle onto it more firmly as he becomes flesh again. "Ow." He rubs his face. "That's gonna leave a bruise. Oh, you can take him? Cool."

"Not sure. Probably not," Clash notes, gritting her teeth. "Can outrun a train, but-" Pausing. "Yeah, just go. Sooner the better. Take the arm too."

Irene brushes her face off on her sleeve... and keeps her arm there, upon second thought. Her eyes go back towards Clash. "Oh, right," she says, before looking to Pride. "I'll turn it off in - an hour? They ought to be able to move the bandage before then." Thankfully, it is likely sterile.

"Yeah, take the arm." Pride agrees. Cause he's so not touching a severed arm. Eww.

Clash wipes her chin. She feels bad letting Atalanta handle it, but if she's faster... "And what the -hell- was that all about, anyway? And are you alright?", she asks, looking Pride's way.

Atalanta eyes Pride, the gingerly picks up the arm. Her olive skin is a bit pale, but she does it anyway. The victim is also picked up, easily. "I doubt they can reattach it, unless there's some meta-healer, but..." Shrugging, she scans for a possible path through the trees.

Pride gingerly prods his jaw and winces a little. "Yeah, I'll be fine. Who knew a priestess could punch so hard? I was expecting something more esoteric." Course, the ripping the arm off thing did kind of hint at it. "They can reattach almost anything nowadays I think. Worth a shot anyway."

"Just because someone's into the occult doesn't mean that they're weak," Irene says from behind her sleeve. She steps to the side, quickly, more or less in the direction she came in from; her purse has very little that is COMPROMISING, but even so, why leave it out there?