15970/DIABOLIC: Debt Collection

DIABOLIC: Debt Collection
Date of Scene:	29 September 2023
Location:	Woodbridge, NJ
Synopsis:	A teenager who sold his sister's soul for power has the WORST day ever.
Cast of Characters:	Illyana Rasputina, Mary Jane Watson, Kelda Stormrider, Phoebe Beacon

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Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Friday night afterdark finds a string of giggling teenagers hissing and pushing one another along a decidedly uncool drive in an unremarkable subdivision. Word of a spooky party gets out among Woodhaven's teens through usual means - socials mostly. Kids range from 15 to 20, most right in the sweet spot. Coming in twos or threes, they edge along Sagamore Avenue past mid-80s builds to a spot where the tall hedges turn shaggy and mature oaks practically mingle their boughs together. A dingy old sign, studded by bird droppings and old graffiti, hangs from the worn-out chainlink fence failing to keep nature in check. PARK RULES it announces loudly. A teenaged boy appears to study this at length while two girls come up behind him.

"Come on, whaddya waiting for?" croons one. A dog's baying make them jump.

"You go first!" hisses her friend when they both traipse to a stop. Darkness shrouds the path spattered in fallen berries off some tree and abundant slippery leaves. The park at the other end isn't visible through a faint haze that tends to gather when the temperature drops, like tonight.

Distant music might be heard. Listen hard enough and the distinctive electronic beat thrums. Rufus Du Sol's unnatural synths lick the wet cloud. The two girls start goading one another down the path, and the boy turns finally. He thrusts his hand out, holding little pink tablets. They brighten up and seize their good fortune, carrying this unexpected free gift before heading off.

"Ugh, who knew Thomas was actually COOL enough to share?" the girl titters nervously and shoves the tablet into her mouth like a squirrel.

"Mmfhnnf." Her companion shrugs, and they drunkenly stitch a path, spooked by every shadow and squirrel. The bells of St. James on Bailey Street start to ring.

Mary Jane Watson has posed:
She's here out on another assignment. It's been a long bus ride from where she was first stationed, then dropping off a package to someone. Why said package couldn't be sent by the post office is beyond her. Why can't it be sent online? Flown in? Dispatched by drone? No, it means that she's had to take a bus trip down to New Jersey. Which isn't that bad. It's just.. New Jersey. There's nothing particularly thrilling about it.

She hsa a bit of time until the Greyhound goes back to the city, so she's taking her time exploring. Currently talking over on her cell phone, Mary Jane speaks, "The foliage out here is lovely, Tiger. Think I'm here a bit before prime season. Maybe in another week if it doesn't rain. But they'll be starting to put out decorations soon. Definitely some music going on.. Anyways, sounds like you're busy, catch you later." There's something on the other end of the phone that sounds like a thwipth as she goes to close it and slides it into a pocket. Why does she have so many phones on her? One personal phone, one 'work' phone, and one 'friend' phone. The joy of having a lot of different associations in life.

Wearing a sweatshirt that has the headline of 'The Onion' showing a stamped picture of J Jonah Jamson in full rant mode wiht the byline 'THAT MUSTACHE, THAT MENACE' and a very, very large duffel bag slung over her shoulder that clinks with whatever the heavy metal inside was, she would pause and move to listen to the music from a distance.

Kelda Stormrider has posed:
Bill had introduced her to hotdogs. Embassy staff had introduced her to the Internet, one of the secretaries explained Yelp and Trip Advisor. Five hotdogs steam in a white bag already marked by grease stains. There is absolutely no other reason for her to be in this undistinguished suburb of New Jersey except for the hotdog stand at the entrance to the Park.

Kelda is a white gleam against the dark rising between the trees - pale blue silk draping to her feet, white blonde hair tumbling nearly to her waist in a shimmering wave. She ignores the giggles approaching her on the path, intent on finding a bench where she can taste the hotdogs. Supposedly the best in New Jersey. Well, she would see if they meet her high standards.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Rule number one of a taking drugs: Don't take anything unless you are absolutely positive of what it is. Tiny pink tablets? Could be Benedryl.

    There's a young woman wearing a beat-up leather backpack, tactical hoodie in dark gray with the hood drawn up, tac pants and good boots. She's also got something long cross-wise down her back -- could be a baseball bat, cricket bat, but the profile's a bit thin. At her side is a red and white sight hound, his tail curled up and over his back, pink-and-black nose to the wind as he takes a deeeep huff of breath. There had been something that'd drawn her in this direction, and the hound's ears gave a wiggle at the sound of bells.

    "It's all right, Idu." Phoebe states gently, reaching down to ruffle the hound. "We'll find out what was pulling us here and head home."

    New Jersey, after all, held her precious adopted home city, Gotham. And this was quite a ride from its lonely streets, poorly lit alleys, and vegan hot dogs. She checked the hotdog stand's menu.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
The outskirts of Woodhaven technically belong to the NYC metro area. Just with none of the glitz or excitement. Kids can't go into Manhattan or hope to see Spider-Man swinging overhead. They take fun where they get it. Evidence of their passage marks the subdivision; a bike tossed by a tree and sinking slowly into the muck. An empty bottle tossed on the path, an empty e-cig cartridge in the grass. They just look abandoned. Neatly kept lawns backing onto the dark, unlit park have newer model Ford and Toyota SUVs, which makes a battered old Chevy Malibu sedan parked crooked on the curb stick out.

Houses form a wall until they stop on the dark oak woodlands. Peering between fences reveals a wet world of tangled brush. The PARK RULES sign insists to stay on the path, not litter, leave the local wildlife alone. Pretty standard stuff to keep Dismal Swamp Preserve looking beautiful. That's a tall order.

Another hound bays. Might interest the sight hound, who might well be inclined to voice his own opinion. From the condo complex a half-mile away, the canine chorus turns shrill, low, loud. Ding dong! Nine times the bells chime.

Something sticky and thick coils through the mists. Music fades into murky white noise. For anyone sensitive to magic, a treacle weight floods over them, torpid and weighty, followed by a tearing sensation. A sound? A mere feeling?

A squirrel tears out of the underbrush at speed past MJ, abandoning a stolen acorn. Faint wisps of black shadow run off its tail.

Mary Jane Watson has posed:
Mary Jane Watson would look over towards the 'Dismal Swamp Preserve' and hmmph, "They might want to work on their name there.." She would speak quietly. Then glance out once again. "This has better not be where Toxie shows up, Troma." That muttered even more quietly as she would go to glance about and frown. Hound? Hounds definitely aren't normal to this area. And here definitely doesn't have the income for people to get high end hunting dogs. Her hand quietly goes back over to the edge of her duffel bag, flipping the wrap over her shoulder to let it lay open - easier for her to grab what's inside and yank it out.

The running animal fleeing - much less leaving food behind confirms it's a sign all right. Something's going on. Something's wrong. Her hand hesitates as she debates grabbing her work phone.. Then decides not to. SHe goes to advance towards the general direction of whatever warped thing is going on, on the alert. Walking forwards at a quick trot.

Kelda Stormrider has posed:
The white bag open next to her on the wooden bench assails her with the odor of grilled dogs and the vinegary smell of mustard. Kelda is a purist, wanting to taste the pure dog. Already, the sear marks speak well of the stand's owner. She sniffs, wondering whether Bill would have approved of them.

Dogs bark in the distance. She sits straight backed with the elegance of royalty and sniffs the air, suddenly alert to footsteps in the dark approaching from two directions. Her pale eyes flash as another scent rises on a dark current eddying along the footpath. Small animals flee to the top of trees, abandoning food meant to be buried for the coming winter.

The Asgardian stands; hotdogs abandoned as she listens with senses that few mortals share with her. A frown turns the edges of her finely chiseled mouth down as she turns to face the rising tide, all appetite gone.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    The baying of the other canine does hold Idu's attention, trying to make sense of the message. Danger. Darkness. The need to protect the family you serve with loyalty. A squirrel is IN MY YARD. Idu's curled over tail stiffens, and his hackles raise though.

    Phoebe feels it too. That thick, viscous darkness, clinging to the air around them as the music fades, becoming distant and murkey to her normal senses.

    Well. That's probably bad.

    The girl and hound leap over the fence, and run into the growing darkness as she checks her left wrist, a dully glowing white tattoo encircling her dark wrist.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Visitors can typically choose two routes into Dismal Swamp. The paved sidewalk between the houses turns into a woodchipped path threading through the trees. Going off-path offers more directional freedom at the cost of sucking mud, going knee-deep in Bound Brook, and underbrush growing six feet tall in places. Swamps have their own hidden dangers and secrets.

Staggered electronic notes repeat themselves as the music picks back up on a new Tiesto track, "Car Keys," sans any vocals. Something like a trumpet fanfare bleeps. Stillness spreads out from the rave in the clearing. More small creatures flee into the relative safety of fenced yards or open streets, completely normal.

Coming closer reveals dim lights flashing from turquoise to sickly electric green in the mist. Silhouettes sway in the miasma that smells of sulphur and rot, less cool fog machine. Only one person moves, waving arms around imperiously, shoving a taller male back until the student falls in the dirt. Someone makes a muffled, indignant sound that still breaks through the shimmering beat.

"I told you, Poppy, for the last time. Shut up!"

Another lower shriek. If someone were shrieking with their head buried in a basket of laundry.

"What are you waiting for? I command you! Take her already!"

Mary Jane Watson has posed:
Hand on her back, Mary Jane walks forwards. She goes through the mud, turning into the swamp. Somehow despite the knee deep of it, the stench, and the thick, gooey mass she goes through cleanly. As if the muck parts before her, moving in near complete silence through the morass. Now there's a shift in her as she moves to casually unsling the duffel bag to rest it over in one arm, going through the muck, going forwards through the dense fog, stalking through the miasma. She hears the sounds of voices, muffled screams.. And she goes to allow herself to revert.

Body turns tense, rage building within her. One thing that Sonja hated was women being assaulted. On this, she and Mary Jane were in complete agreement on. So Mary Jane subsumes herself, only having enough of an influence now to prevent Sonja from scything through the voices ahead.

"Let them go." She arrives out of the smoke, mad and macabre, mud dripping off her like a monster rising from the depths. Having come through without perhpas even a sound as the dank fog would hang thick in the air.

"Or be cloven limb from limb. I care not for the particulars, dogs." The duffel bag is slung down, and from it she goes to use one hand to draw out her basterd sword. A massive, massive blade that's too big and heavy for a normal person to hold with one hand.

Sonja was mad. Sonja was feral. Sonja would -enjoy- this bit if they were so stupid as to think she was just threatening.

Kelda Stormrider has posed:
Kelda tuts at the intrusion. Who knew that a suburb as anodyne as Woodbridge hid such wonders. Hotdogs and the reek of magic that reminds her of incursions from the darker elements of the Nine Realms. Voices reach through the trees carried on a waft of brimstone and death. The wise inhabitants of this little woodland flee toward the lights they normally avoid.

Human voices rise, joining violence to the blackness rising from the woods behind her. Pleading and command.

Her pale robes swirl around her feet as she turns to follow running footsteps. She has hunted behind the hounds in her homeland, usually on horseback with kin and friends of the royal household. Kelda recognizes the ground eating pace of an animal made for the hunt followed by a human. Another joins them like arrows speeding toward a target. She matches them with her own strength, feet skimming the ground as she lifts in hurry to find the source of the magic tainting the air.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe and Idu don't worry about sinking into the stinking muck of the swamp -- there is the briefest glow of rose-gold among the trees and shrubs before she alights onto a branch -- with a slightly muddy hound in her arms. The scene is laid out in front of her -- the miasma in grossness. The feeling of the dark cutting through, the sulphur scent of rotting eggs and the fog that permeates the area as she lets loose her hound. There's not a bay, but a teeth-bared scream of the African hunting hound.

    Its hunter follows behind, boots hitting solid ground (no knee-depth muck here!)

    And she summons her staff, a brilliant slice of light in the Dismal darkness.

    "I second that." she comments, voice distorted.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Several students hang around a misshapen clearing in the forest. All signs point to a low-key rave. Bottles lie on a picnic table beside a lumpy backpack, an open notebook, several StarkPhones, and a wifi speaker pumping out the rave tunes. Cheap strobing lights cued to an app provide the ominous blue to green glow in the mist.

The group forms a rough circle around the picnic table. A brunette girl in a St. James High School t-shirt and pleated skirt sways on her feet. Her nearest neighbours mostly ignore the fallen college student and barely flick an eyelash when MJ wades out, the Creature From the Black Swampgoon. Most dark eyes are on a spotty teenaged boy in designer jeans and kicks looking damn styling. He points at the ground, fancy watch gleaming with a frownie face. >:( "Hurry up!" Noxious magic swirls around him. His fingers carry the slightest dark stain.

Chunks of brush gathered, maybe for a fire, obscure a prostrate lump chained to a memorial bench to Dotty Mae Vashin (proud birdwatcher, grandma, and Edison's best tarts! 1931-2015). A wad of tape messily wrapped around their head accounts for grunts and ineffective screams. It wiggles and tries to shimmy away from the most unremarkably boring guy with ash-blond hair and irritated expression who walks her way. He looks up for a moment when magic ripples out, head snapping in Phoebe's direction. Recognition blooms. He wears a Mets shirt and torn pants, but the letters for a player on the back of the jersey look written in Cyrillic or Icelandic. They hurt to look at, being weird. "As master commands." He reaches down, and the pressure spikes in the atmosphere painfully for any sensitive. Ears might pop. Sinuses ache.

A wavering grey shape surrounds the person on the ground, who really does start screaming bloody murder.

Mary Jane Watson has posed:
Having been in a few fights with Balm, Red Sonja goes to charge forwards, "Healer, save the hostage." That's not a word that's in Sonja's normal ethos. Hostage. IT's one that's placed in by Mary Jane's training. She's going to charge over at the snotty spotty looking teenage boy. She's expecting that the Mets one is probably the most dangerous, given the sheer amount of energy that he's putting out. So that means she expects Kelda to go for him while Balm goes to rescue the victim.

Red Sonja goes to charge over at the child that has spent too much time and money on his looks. Which she intends to rend off him. She doesn't bother adding to her threats. She just acts. And goes in on the full offensive! Her blade goes low, moving to position for a scything slash! Normally the part of her that is Mary Jane would strongly resist this part. But given the circumstances..

Well, mostly the presence of Balm, that is an extremely powerful healer. The easiest way to take out a caster is with distraction. And given the boy's gesticulation he's likely a gesture based one. Or at least is trained that way and used to it. So Sonja goes to try and do the most effective thing to neutralize him as a threat.

Relieve him of them! A large scything strike accompanied by her charging at him at more than sixty kilometers an hour is intended to try and slash off each of his arms over by the elbow, followed over by an attempted brutal kick to the gut to send him flying. She doesn't quite know what he's casting, nor does she care. Not of his age, not of his stylings, not of his ability. She goes to deal with things simply.

Violence. Brutal, brutal violence. Ther'es enough of Mary Jane to have her simply rend him from his limbs rather than his entire body.

Kelda Stormrider has posed:
A startling brilliance chases shadows through the boughs. The magic source of the light distinct from the miasma rising from the ground. Cold air, clean as the rare air of mountain tops, gusts into the glade as Kelda settles closer to the ground. She blinks, amused at her own surprise when she spies the caster. A young woman and a dog. The other woman challenging the tableau leaves her with a question to be answered later. Pure violence pours from her but no evil. Both carry magic.

Her icy gaze sweeps the glade, adolescents no matter the realm like their little rebellions away from the eyes of their elders. Most are motivated by boredom and the need to escape the mediocrity of their lives, no evil or murderous intent. Something else drives them here. The oldest one among them is a pillar of dark power.

Kelda stretches out a hand. A spear gleams in her fist, pure ice, hard as diamond, its edge catching the ambient light. She is in no mood for diplomacy. Already the darkness has insinuated itself into the teenaged would-be ravers.

"Begone. You are not wanted here!" she commands, voice ringing like the blast of a northern gale, as she raises the spear at the source of the black magic.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    " -- YOU!!" Balm calls out, looking to the man in the Mets shirt. The letters on the back *burn* in her vision, and she feels the hair on the back of her neck pick up as the hackles raise all along Idu's spine and tail, the blue-eyed hound snarling before Sonja takes point on him.

    Phoebe moves quickly, Idu by her side and keeping himself between Phoebe and The Man with the Mets Shirt, as she goes to recover the victim in tape and bindings.

    Her hands are already aglow with her staff bared, and she's a shimmering Light in the darkness surrounding them. She's also a GREAT target.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
A barrage of threats and effects fills the glade. Trees shiver, dropping leaves into the sticky muck that swallows up the least strong souls. Kelda won't have an issue but the others will facing the extremely slippery, waterlogged goo that swallows them to their knees if they close from any direction but the thin trail.

The students shuffle into action as soon as weapons end up drawn and words thrown down. Thomas in his stylish kicks frowns and curses under his breath as he reels away. That's enough for several of the teens to hurry into MJ's midst. Unless she pulls her scything strike with that sword, the blade ends up buried deep in a 5'3" Korean raver faintly scowling. Five of them swarm around the redhead in no particularly skilful ambush, trying to jump on her back, wrap their arms around her leg, or pull her off-balance.

The ugly sounds he spits out stretch reality around the edges. Messy work but effective as energy spindles up into a hideous curse. Withered leaves curl up on the sucking morass. Some poor bird falls stone-dead out of a bush. Kelda and Balm both might feel the inverted energies hedging against them, something much bigger than a stupid teenager aping a couple incantations from a fake grimoire. This is real, stained by sacrifice, and it punches back ferociously against any attempts to push its focus down. Expert swordswomen or spear-sisters won't just stab and end the problem.
Mets Man keeps pulling instead of attacking Idu or Balm. The symbols on the back of his jersey morph into illegible phrases, mirrored on the duct tape wrappings holding Poppy unceremoniously wrapped in them. Infernal glyphs blaze orange and all the grey energy seems to be coalescing into an unimpressive stone floating midair. Her rheumy eyes sink into her pale face. Maybe she's about 14. She currently looks like a meth addict with a terminal case of something, the gurgling noises getting worse.

Mary Jane Watson has posed:
The others swarm over her. Controlled? Coerced. That means that where Sonja would strike full power instead she goes to turn the flat of her blade, moving to try and take it as a shove. As the individuals swarm over her, she goes to kick and struggle. She goes to simply try and dart away - moving to simply try and use her superior strength to forcibly pull herself along and away. They're still ankle deep in muck. It will hopefully take the others a few moments to swarm back towards her and attempt to reengage.

"TO HELL'S DEPTHS WITH YOU CHILDE!" She goes to screech a war cry even as she goes to flick out a dagger, which would be hurled through the air over at Prep Boy. The dagger is launched through the air with the blade intent on embedding it's way over in his gut. He's hurled everyone in the area after her, and is hopefully focusedon trying to direct them to intercept her. Even as her outfit is shredded over in the yankage.

Hoodie torn, jeans mostly shredded down, ripped off. Leaving her in a state of shorn clothes in a very, very specific patterning of minimal coverage if it could be called even that.

Dagger launched through the air at roughly two hundred kilometers an hour to try and hit the boy in the gut. With the blade. At that level of force and speed if it's not stopped by anything else it could in theory go out the other end and embed itself in a tree. Of course, that requires the child to be hit, to not have an energy shield up or something to block it.. And it is still just a nromally thrown blade, of no inherent specialness or material.

Kelda Stormrider has posed:
The poison in her spear would likely kill any mortal. Even against magic beings it has shown its power, having a count of Dark Elves to its name. Kelda is pure magic born of light and sunrises, wind and sky. Lightning crackles from cloud to cloud above them as her anger grows. But, she was not born to cast spells or break trysts made with evil.

As the group swarms the woman carrying a blade, she casts her spear at the man carrying the demon, a bid for time. She has no hope of cracking the bonds already set in place and recognizes her weakness.

"Lightbringer," she calls. "Can you sunder the bonds of black magic?"

A searing bolt lances the man in the teeshirt, followed by a spear aimed at his neck. Kelda rises into the air, another spear at the ready.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    This feels familiar.

    This feels Damned Familiar.

    Infernal contracts are such a pain int he ass. No one ever wins, and Phoebe's eyes glow. Her fingers in their gloves emit lines that shine through the leather.

    "Yes." she whispers, in answer to Kelda's call, with a quiet and calm that denotes the gravity of what has to be done to save the other children -- and fourteen, fifteen, they were just children.

    There's a command given in a gutteral tongue, musical and deep both to the hound, counting on Poppy to hold on.

    And Phoebe turns, her fingers curling against her staff before she brings it to the side and its form shifts around, shorter, differently handled, and becoming a sword in lieu of a simple staff. The Light crackles against its edge as her attention turns to Thomas, in his fancy shirt and Yeezy shoes.

    And she goes to attack, moving swiftly in tandem with her hound as Idu leaps to Thomas to grab him by the back of the sweatshirt and try and throw him off balance, while Phoebe follows up with what should be a killing blow, with an Assassin's deadliness as she tries to strike through the heart, lungs, and spinal cord all in one go -- provided no one's horrified reaction is to stop her!

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Punched and stabbed teenagers usually end up crying in the fetal position. The ones mobbing Mary Jane show no such self-concern. Bravery bordering on suicidal bravado goes without much vocalizing. Grunted when kneed, gasping when struck. They fall bleeding and bruised, then scramble to get back up. What coordination exists is purely to put themselves in harm's way again and impede the redhead from making progress.

Still, others in the clearing can act to the moody trance playlist as a surreal beat. They lumber around to throw sticks and handfuls of muddy leaves or rocks at anyone coming too close. St. James High School's second string quarterback has a good arm. So does a gangly blonde, messy up to her elbows in no time. Splats worth something!

The fallen college kid groans and goes limp, no longer conscious instead of lying there patiently. Takes sorcerous eyes to see the life force yanked from him into Thomas of the snazzy hoodie, and if the dagger hit him, he's not actually slowed down. "You're ruining everything! Jealous, stupid, ugly people. We had a deal. You owe me!" Thomas' frantic demands send a ripple through the air, wind blowing backwards, the stench of the deep brackish estuary and the undersides of swamps.

Idu is big enough to land on the kid's cool shirt. His paws burn for it though as Someone in Hell takes notice. Doesn't stop him from screaming and flailing at the mage with her Light Staff, throwing gobs of black plasma tainted infernally. Even a touch is enough to send 'flames' rolling up a stick, a staff, a limb.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Poppy keeps screaming weakly behind her gag. Her uncoordinated wriggling weakens while the sliver of her frightened face becomes grey. Metal chain wrapped around the bench stops clinking quite so loudly.

The man in the Mets jersey is very focused, starting to hum. His shoulders roll in to the strain. With how little attention he pays to anything else, he sticks out like a sore thumb.

Then something goes pop. He jerks and looks down at the shaft shoved through him. Whatever self-preservation he possesses lands with him several feet away through the trees, blown off his feet. The grey glow above Poppy disperses, and the floating rock drops to the ground harmlessly. Streaky reddish and milky bands wrap around the agate that radiates power even to the unprepared. She seizes several times, in clear distress.

Kelda Stormrider has posed:
Clouds form, roiling with lightning above the treetops. The lightning no longer plays high above them but stabs the group charging the woman with the magic sword, an army of spears. Ozone competes with the humid rot surrounding them. Not content with knocking him from his feet, Kelda seeks to sunder his ties to this mortal sphere. The second icy javelin leaps from her hand, her aim deadly.

"Au, the poor one! Can she be saved, Lightbringer?"

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Idu yelps, his paws burning, swollen and red as he releases his grip, his tongue swelling and burnt as he tumbles away from Thomas. Phoebe can feel the energy shift, the ebb as one of the highschoolers is robbed of their life and it's brought into Thomas. The smell of ozone is accompanied by the sudden heady smell of roses and black pepper, of citrus's sharpness as Phoebe raises her left hand. The encircling tattoo around her wrist shines like the sun as she calls out: "HAEC LUX MEA SIT!"

    And she releases her power, no longer in hiding. Lines trail down from her eyes and up along her arms as The Light and Healing energy floods the area around them, errupting as if it were suddenly mid-day. Grass and wildflowers grow and blossom. Trees that have dropped their leaves bud. There's poison ivy that suddenly springs up over to the side -- definitely don't go over there, that'd just be a bad time.

    Bodily injuries for those who are possessed heal and restore. Those who were fighting are refreshed. And Thomas?

    Well. Thomas just takes point-blank "I AM THE LIGHT!" damage.

    Stupid Trolly problem, you have to kill one for the chance to save the others.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Kelda fills the woods with cleansing breath. Dancing balls of light overcome whatever $20 Bluetooth bulbs off Lexazon can muster. The shadowy gloom diminishes in the Asgardian woman's wrath as light blooms to shock students off their feet. A single strike is enough to send them flying away from Mary Jane into the bushes. Add 'sooty' to their bruises and cuts. The redhead's way lies open to the picnic table altar or the memorial bench or anywhere else around the clearing.

Deeper into the woods, the man in the Mets uniform isn't rising any time fast. The trees shake again and then go still. Then the electric light orchestra from Balm begins. Even the burnt husk of Thomas looks fresh and hip in his overpriced sneakers.

Hell may be satisfied or licking its wounds. Hell is, by definition, cowardly a lot of the time.

Poppy squints and grimaces. Chewing towels behind duct tape is not fun.

Kelda Stormrider has posed:
Above them, the skies clear and the stars reappear. The glade is a curious blend of sudden spring and wintry chill. Kelda blinks, gazing up at the trees with fresh leaves edged by starlight. The Asgardian settles gently to the ground and approaches the young woman.

"You have great power for someone from this realm, young one. Thank you for your aid in ridding this place of such evil. It was not my goal. I came in search of hotdogs. But let it be known that Kelda Stormbringer thanks you."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe lets her power fade. Healing completed. People will feel the effects for a good thirty minutes afterwards. Winter and Autumn take their place again in the clearing in Dismal Swamp as she whispers another phrase, and her brightness fades -- but the tattoo at her wrist glows before she pulls her sleeve down.

    Idu -- also healed -- bounds over and gives a shake. As he shakes, little flakes of magic fall off him as well.

    "Kelda Stormbringer? Well met." she gives a smile. "I am called Balm, for obvious reasons." she smiles, and -- with some hesitants and stiffness in her arm, offers her right hand for a grasp and shake.

    "Well. My car's around the way. If you'd like we can journey together in search of replacement hotdogs." she grins, and then leans over and calls out: "SONJA! Do you want hotdogs? We're gonna get some food. I have *such* a hankering for like, the biggest, greasiest pile of fries and peanutbutter I can get my hands on."