19151/Tales of Gemworld: Batburger Siege

Tales of Gemworld: Batburger Siege
Date of Scene:	25 September 2024
Location:	Batburger
Synopsis:	When a group of orcs released on Earth find the Batburger in pursuit of Princess Amethyst - and find Batman, Silverdane, Red Sonja and Voodoo!
Cast of Characters:	Amy Winston, Mary Jane Watson, Priscilla Kitaen, Belinda Gutierrez, Terry McGinnis

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Amy Winston has posed:
"Crush everything," Gruk ordered, his voice cold as steel, "and find the Batburger special sauce. No one leaves until we have it!"

The night in Gotham had turned into a scene of unbridled chaos. The Iron Tusk Raiders, orcs from Nilaa unleashed by Dark Opal, had descended upon the city with terrifying force. Their roaring motorcycles, twisted with spikes and tusk-like exhausts, screamed through the city block, their leader Gruk at the helm. Towering over the rest, his eyes gleamed with savage pride as he surveyed the destruction unfolding around him.

At the center of the chaos, Batburger, a symbol of Gotham's hope and heroism, became a warzone. The Raiders smashed through the walls, flames licking at the air as they threw fireballs and swung their brutal bone clubs. One orc, sneering in disdain, shattered a glass display case with a replica of the Batsuit inside. He held the cape and cowl up like a trophy, mocking Gotham's protector.

"This is your Kingdom's Protector?!" he bellowed in Orcish, his voice booming over the clamor of destruction. He draped the cowl over his own tusked face, glaring at the terrified bystanders. "I am now your new protector!" The orcs roared in approval, their jeers filling the air as they stamped their feet and beat their weapons against the pavement.

As the Batburger smoldered, a Gotham City police cruiser screeched into view, lights flashing desperately in the chaos. The officers inside barely had time to react before one of the orcs hurled a massive chunk of debris into its path. The cruiser slammed into it with a sickening crunch, skidding out of control and smashing into a nearby streetlamp. The hood crumpled, the windshield shattered, and smoke poured from the engine as the car lay wrecked, its occupants trapped inside.

The driver groaned, blood trickling from a cut on his forehead as he fumbled for his radio. His partner struggled with the door, but it was jammed tight, the metal warped from the impact. The siren wailed helplessly as the officers sat disoriented, trapped in their crumpled vehicle.

Outside, one of the orcs approached the wrecked cruiser, a menacing grin spread across his tusked face. His towering form cast a long shadow over the wreckage as he hefted his massive war axe, ready to bring it crashing down on the roof of the car. The officers inside exchanged a glance, their terror growing with each thudding footstep of the orc.

But before the orc could strike, Gruk's voice boomed across the street, cutting through the chaos like a blade. "Leave them!" he commanded. "Let them watch as their Kingdom falls! As for the rest? It is time to feast!" Whether on Batbrugers or humans is not made clear.

The orc sneered but obeyed, lowering his axe and stepping back from the wreckage. Inside the cruiser, the officers sat powerless, forced to witness the destruction of their city. Flames engulfed the block, and the sounds of smashing glass, roaring engines, and the Raiders' cruel laughter filled the air. The Batburger's neon bat sign flickered weakly above them, a faint reminder of the hope that was now fading fast.

Mary Jane Watson has posed:
She had been in Gotham doing a courier run. Which meant take the bus through the Hyperloop, go through the city streets at night, drop off whatever her package was in a specific place with no idea as to what was in it or what was going to be done with it. Pondering if it was a hazing thing even when she'd been a field agent for a year or two. Heading to get some food before back to the HYperloop to sleep on the bus ride home. So when she hears the sound of chaos and fighting and then seeing the huge beast of an Ork outside.. Her heart beats fast. Glee comes from within it.

For once, there is no hesitation. These are not humans, these are monsters. How exactly that makes it different is a matter of opinion. But, she revels in it. There is no hesitation. Mary Jane yields the mental field and body to the warrior within. Sonja goes to snap out with two swords. One that was a basterd sword with a core of Hyborean steel forged and with a layer of secondary adamantium atop. The other the sword of an Aesir, an Asgardian shieldmaiden forged by dwarven smiths. Sonja has the happiest expression on her face..

"Come, beasts! I welcome you to die!" Sonja just looks so maddeningly, sadistically happy as she roars out her defiance, ehr challenge, and her taunt. "My blades have not been bathed in blood for far too long! Thank you for volunteering to be carved up slabs of meat!"

Priscilla Kitaen has posed:
Priscilla Kitaen is on a tour from club to club, strutting her stuff on neon-lit poles up and down the East Coast, living out of cheap motels and generally living the normal human life she had before she discovered she was an alien freakazoid half-breed with magical abilities and maybe a few extra genomes that turned her into a monster sometimes. Life had been simple then, as simple as the life of highly-successful stripper can be.

Even better, actually, because now, when some creep crossed the line, she had the skills and ability to scare the ever loving shit out of him. Sure, she could mesmerize them into quiescence and just resole everything peacefully. But where was the fun in that? She much preferred handsy stalkers be handled by the inducement of pant-shitting terror. That was sort of like being a superhero, right?

She had crawled out of her motel late in the day, wearing a purple hoodie, black leggings and raggedy black and white sneakers. Her thick black hair was stuffed under the hood, with a few locks falling across her face, hiding her pouty lips and caramel-hued beauty, those lavender eyes kept to her phone as she follows the directions from the Gotham subway to the nearest burger...joint...

Slowly, she looks up and sees Orcs. She doesn't know what Orcs are and, frankly, she doesn't assume the ugly guys are the baddies cause she's been an uggo herself in times of stress and it has given her a lot of perspective. She was a monster, too, after all. But these guys definitely seemed out of line. And she really wanted that burger.

One of the orcs starts to charge towards her but she unleashes a psi-attack, a bolt of raw mental energy that should fill him with pain and horror. She pulls back her hood and her eyes turn from purple to gold, pupils turning to slits as the skin on her right hand splits to release black talons five inches in length, curved and ready to slice. "No food here, boyo."

Belinda Gutierrez has posed:
Gotham City is know for many things, nad-- for Belinda Gutierrez -- Batburger is very near the top of the list. What is one to do after half a night spent stalking the city, revelling in the hunt, even in the concrete jungle?

Chow down.

Sadly, the sound of sirens, explosions, even distant chaos is nothing new to hear in Gotham; that it gets louder the closer one comes, though.... A backpack of simple clothing is set aside, stuffed away with a snarl. The wolfwoman rumbles as hger eyes gleam. An affront to sensibility is near, standing between Hungry Predator and her chosen, Batilicious prey! Growling from mor ethan just ravenous appetite, Silverdane stalks forward, strides through the shadows. Appraoching the building, scenting, tasting the air--

Striving mightily to ignore that delicious scent. Burger and beef and chicken and Emu Special--

Howling with gusto as she lunges from the alleyway, surging into the fray!

Terry McGinnis has posed:
Terry McGinnis, the Batman, was one of the UNFORTUNATES inside the Batburger as the orcs raided it. They never had Batburger where he's from, just Big Belly Burger, but the irony of eating here amused him. He lifts his Double Bacon Bat with Night Sauce to his mouth when the first of the beasts crash in.

This makes him drop his burger.

Terry says some unkind things under his breath before he takes in what's actually happening. His eyes narrow as the camera pans back to the orcs. When it looks back to Terry, he's gone.

From the roof of the building, the Batman looms. "Hey," he shouts over the chaos. "That's not yours. For one, your head's too big. For the other, this is a very un-Batman-like activity!"

Terry's boot rockets fire as he jumps off the roof for some extra height. He flips over and extends a leg, aiming to kick Gruk in his extra large dome and maybe get the cowl off of him at the same time.

Amy Winston has posed:
Gruk turns with a snarl, his grip tightening on the battered cowl as he surveys the newcomers daring to challenge the might of the Iron Tusk Raiders. His tusks gleam under the glow of the fires raging around Batburger, and his orcs, sensing the rising tension, pause in their rampage, watching the scene unfold.

A crimson-haired warrior woman steps forward from the shadows, a wicked grin on her face and steel in her hands. "Come, beasts! I welcome you to die!" she shouts, brandishing two swords that gleam with dangerous, ancient power. Gruk laughs, a deep, rumbling sound from his chest.

"You think you can carve up the Iron Tusk Raiders like meat?!" Gruk bellows, swinging his heavy mace in an arc as he tries to slam it into Sonja. "You're just another fool in this dying city!" The orcs around him roar their approval, gripping their weapons, eager for blood. Another orc, moves to interfere. Some distance back from the others, he aims his staff towards Sonja and sends out a fireball, racing to set the firey warrior alight!

Before they can charge, another figure emerges. Hooded and calm, she stands, seemingly unfazed by the hulking orc advancing toward her. With a simple flick of her mind, she unleashes a wave of raw psychic energy, sending one of the orcs reeling, clutching his head in agony. Her eyes glow gold, her pupils narrowing into reptilian slits, as black talons extend from her hand.

One of the orcs still on his motorcycle, turns to face Pris, revving the engine before lurching towards her, the bike's wheels squealing as he starts swinging around a large weighted chain to attempt to wrap the monster girl up. "I bet you're delicious!"

Gruk narrows his eyes but remains defiant. "You think your magic frightens us, witch? We've fought worse in the crystal fields of Nilaa!" Some might notice hints of turquoise charms on their skin, which is operating as magic sinks against attack.

The air thickens with tension as yet another contender joins the fray-a hulking wolfwoman, prowling from the shadows, growling low and dangerous. Silverdane's form ripples with predatory intent as she lunges forward, teeth bared, eyes glowing with primal hunger. Her fierce howl echoes through the streets, sending a shiver down even Gruk's spine.

The orcs hesitate, unsure if this is a mere beast or a warrior in her own right. Gruk, undeterred, raises his mace again. "You're nothing but a dog! I'll break your back like I did Gotham's pride!"

Before Gruk can strike, a new voice cuts through the chaos.

"Hey!" A sharp shout comes from above. Everyone looks up to see Batman-a different Batman-perched on the roof of Batburger. His voice carries a mocking edge. "That's not yours. For one, your head's too big. For the other, this is a very un-Batman-like activity!"

Gruk barely has time to react as Terry McGinnis launches himself off the roof, his boot thrusters igniting. With a midair flip, Terry aims a powerful kick at Gruk's tusked face, intent on knocking the cowl free. Gruk snarls, trying to raise his mace in defense, but the attack comes too fast.

Terry's boot connects with a resounding thud, sending Gruk stumbling back. The cowl tears free from his head, falling to the ground. Gruk lets out a roar of rage, his eyes blazing. "You dare strike Gruk, king of the Iron Tusk Raiders?!"

The battlefield is set. On one side, Sonja with her bloodthirsty grin, the hooded psionic with deadly talons, Silverdane in full lupine fury, and Batman, poised for another strike. On the other, Gruk and his orcs, roaring in defiance, weapons raised, eager for battle.

The city block around Batburger is now a warzone, the air thick with the promise of bloodshed and the clash of steel.

Gruk raises his mace high, his voice booming. "This city will burn, and you will all be nothing but forgotten whispers when we're done!"

Priscilla Kitaen has posed:
The orc facing down with Pris seems to have the advantage. His revved motorcycle charges at Voodoo, the hybrid heroine's curvaceous form seemingly pinned in that headlight, unmoving, easy prey to be run over. At least, that's what the orc sees. Weak-minded, callow, cruel. Easy pickings for a mistress of illusion. The casting of false sight was the first trick she ever learned, when she was just a girl from the wrong side of the tracks.

So the orc doesn't see her step aside, breaking into a run, maneuvering with aggression. Pris' Coda training might be getting rusty, but even with a hint of rust, the sharpness of the Coda cannot be matched. She moves in rapidly, those claws raking at the side of the orc as it sweeps past her, spilling blood if she can. She isn't a superhero, that's true. She had no compunctions about killing someone who tried to take her life.

A deep compassion dwelled within Priscilla Kitaen - but it would be foolish to mistake that compassion for mercy.

Belinda Gutierrez has posed:
Silverdane's ears slant back as she snarls at Gruk's words, fists balling around the vicious claws. "Not un perro!" she retorts with a savage rumble, rising to her full height, striding forward towards the greenish creatures out of fantasy. Legend. Myth?

And then, then,*then*--

The shadow from on-high. Moonlight behind. Descending from above, a kick of flame into the warlord's head.

"...Dios!" the wolf-woman whispers, shocked beyond words. Batman. It can only be *the* Batman. Real and in the flesh and protecting the city!

His territory.

"...Dios," she moans again-- distracted, attention diverted, wide-eyed shock and awe and wonder come to a sudden, abrupt end. Three orcs, taking advantage of the 'beast's' distraction, drive in with a thrum of motorcycle engines, landing the first of skull-crushing blows from the side. Refocus comes too late; metal meets flesh with brutal force. Bone crunches sickeningly as Silverdane sails from her feet, mass no match for the raw kinetic energy of cycle-mounted orcish mace.

Revving in roaring triumph, the orc wheels away, confident in first blood, first fallen, first victory!

Mary Jane Watson has posed:
Red Sonja goes to cackle, "Oh, is that the best you have, beast? Then I hope you make your skewering entertaining. Put up a show of a fight." And Red Sonja goes to charge. It seems like Gruk is off balance for just a moment or two from the Batman's attack, which is as far as Sonja is concerned enough to get in her strike. She's going to run at high speed! For short bursts, she can hit up to sixty kilometers an hour. Her arms are scything with her twin swords, which she intends to drink deep of her enemy's blood.

The scything and the running are designed to let her build up as much power and momentum as possible. Even with enhanced strength, striking through an orc in armor is going to be hard. So she goes to charge over at Gruk, her blades going to sweep..
    One slashing upwards, the other slashing downwards if she could to make a stylized 'X' in passing along the front of his torso. If he were just an ordinary Frost Giant, it might cleave somewhat of him in half. But undoubtedly warrior orcs that have survived in centuries in the land of Nilaa and fought and died in droves against powerful magical beings are made of sterner stuff.
    So presuming that her attack will do little more than slow him, Red Sonja would intend to twist around hopefully by the side, going to pivot quickly on a foot, combat boot going to dig in hard to the ground to pull her to a hard stop. Her other leg snaps up, a blade popping out of the heel of her boot. She goes to try and jab him in the back of the knee with it and then slash downwards, trying to hamstring him. Both blades would then slash upwards, going for weaker points in his armor if she could find any. Arms, shoulders, elbows. Where the armor has to be flexible to permit mobility. Blades sweep upwards, trying to slash along and hit as many point as possible. She's not expecting to take him down in one sweep. Or even hurt him a great deal. But hopefully she can at least slow him. If her strikes are solid and good she can hopefully limit his mobility some and force him to go defensive. Or make him go berserk and be a much sloppier fighter.

Terry McGinnis has posed:
Terry uses the impact to rebound away, landing in a Cool Guy Crouch<tm>. As Terry stands, he becomes shrouded in flickering shadows from the streetlights and small fires that are assuredly going. Only the white, glowing eyes of his cowl pierce them. "I dare a lot of things, pal. Striking you is the least of my problems," he says, unable to not be a smartass.

"And I don't know what an Iron Tusk Raider is. Or a Gruk, but," Terry starts as he reaches into his utility belt. "Gotham doesn't belong to thugs and bandits. Gotham belongs to the people." He pulls out a pair of almost circular Batarangs.

"And the people are protected by Batman."

One of the Batarangs spins through the air with a whistle. This one explodes on impact. Armor, flesh or mace, it doesn't matter. This one's the distraction. The second one that follows it delivers one hell of an electric shock.

Better crime fighting through wonderful toys. And, you know, technology from the future.

Amy Winston has posed:
However, Batman's presence in the battle changes the dynamic. Terry's Batarangs explode with devastating force, throwing orcs off their feet. The explosion rocks Gruk's defenses, but the warlord remains unshaken. The electric shock that follows sends spasms through one of the orc warriors, causing his mace to drop, but his kin fight on, undeterred. They snarl, their eyes blazing with fury at the technological GFtrickery. Gruk grits his teeth, eyeing the caped hero with burning hatred.

Then, the fireball. The orc mage's spell streaks through the night, its blazing heat directed at Silverdane, a vicious counter to the wolf-woman's earlier defiance. The orcs, relishing the chaos, press their attack harder, reveling in the destruction around them. The Iron Tusk Raiders are here to conquer, and nothing - neither warrior women, masked vigilantes, nor legendary heroes - will deter them from claiming their prize.

Amy Winston has posed:
The orc, filled with overconfidence as his motorcycle barrels toward Voodoo, has no idea he's been caught in a masterful trap. In his mind, she's an easy target, frozen in fear, nothing more than prey. But as the illusion fades, and Pris sidesteps with predatory precision, it's already too late for him. His eyes widen in surprise as her claws rake across his side with savage force, tearing through flesh and leather. Blood sprays from the deep gashes, painting the pavement in crimson.

He howls in pain, jerking the bike off course, trying to steady himself as it careens past her. His grip tightens on the handlebars, desperation mingling with rage. The orc, who had thought himself the predator, now finds himself the prey. He grits his teeth, feeling the sharp sting of her strike, but years of hardened battle instincts keep him upright. His motorcycle skids to a stop, turning in a wide arc as he struggles to regain control.

Staggering, the orc turns back toward Voodoo, fury blazing in his eyes. The blood dripping from his side only fuels his anger. He revs the engine again, determined to crush her beneath his wheels this time, but there's a hesitation now-a flicker of doubt in his mind. He underestimated her once, and he knows now she's far more dangerous than she first appeared. The thrill of the hunt has turned into something else: a fight for survival.

But Voodoo, with her Coda training surging to the surface, remains unfazed. Her movements are fluid, almost graceful, a sharp contrast to the orc's brute force. She can see it in his eyes-he's wounded, both physically and mentally. He's not used to being outmaneuvered like this, not used to feeling fear. And in that moment of hesitation, she knows she has the upper hand. Compassion might have once tempered her, but here, in the midst of battle, there's no mercy left for those who would take her life.

The orc, bleeding and furious, grips his weapon tighter, preparing for another charge, but deep down, he knows this battle isn't going the way he imagined. Voodoo is no helpless victim, and now, she's closing in.

The other orcs, emboldened by their numbers and brute strength, relish the chaos around them. Gruk, momentarily shaken by Batman's strike, quickly regains his footing, his tusks bared in fury. This battle is far from over, and the Iron Tusk Raiders do not yield easily. His laughter, guttural and raw, echoes in the streets as he braces for Red Sonja's charge. The warrior woman's speed catches his eye, but he stands tall, his muscles rippling beneath the thick armor. Her blades strike true, scraping along his armor in a shower of sparks, but they barely slow him down. Gruk grins savagely, his body built for war and endurance, his blood pumping harder with every challenge.

Sonja's strikes, calculated and swift, carve into the weak points of his armor, but orcs of Nilaa are not easily felled. He stumbles slightly as her boot blade bites into the back of his knee, but instead of collapsing, Gruk roars in defiance. His massive axe sweeps upward, aiming to crush her with a single blow, but her agility keeps her just out of reach. Her relentless assault chips away at his mobility, yet Gruk's rage only grows.

Around them, the other orcs push their advantage. Silverdane, distracted by the sudden arrival of the legendary Batman, falls under the brutal assault of the orc raiders. The sickening crunch of bone is met with roaring laughter from the mounted orcs, their maces dripping with blood as they circle back, ready to strike again. They revel in the violence, seeing their enemies falter as a sign of impending victory.

Priscilla Kitaen has posed:
The orc Voodoo has engaged turns on her swiftly, blood spilling from where those onyx claws rakes along his ribs, tearing through the thin armor of his hide. Pris turns on her heels to face him again, snarling. The orc has dismounted, letting his bike go skidding as he draws a big knife to try and take her throat. Pris dodges once, twice - no need, just testing those reflexes, that training. Might as well get in a workout while she has the chance. She could always take his mind if she needed.

He lunges too far and she brings up her knee, clipping his jaw and, when he throws his head back in pain, she rips out his throat, tossing sinew and meat aside as the orc slumps to the ground at her feet.

"Dammit, I want a burger, man! My call time's in like an hour!"

Belinda Gutierrez has posed:
Crunch of bone, sickening scent, coppery scent cutting through the wafting foodsmells like a razor-- Silverdane staggers back to her feet, snarling fury. The orcs' wicked grins waver as they watch the splintered mess of teeth and fang and muzzle reset, set and reknit, bloody mess all that remains of that horrific blow. Shaking off the effects as if it were rain, a step forward--

Flame. Fire. An explosion that steals the scent, robs all sound, shatters the world into an ocean of misery and every nerve set to screaming misery.

Euphoria gives way to blistering pain; Silverdane?s howl splits the night as fire sears along corded muscle, staining the air with the smell of burned fur and scorched flesh. Only one response, on thing to manage--

Stop, drop, writhe and roll and twist against the concrete. Comical, amusing-- the orc trio guffaws at the werewoman's sprawling pain.

Terry McGinnis has posed:
This Batman doesn't have a cape. He traded it in for these retractable wings. Not that he's using them right now. The Batman considers, thinking quickly about his options. Could he take Gruk in a straight fight? Maybe. The artificial superstrength granted by the suit probably puts them around even, or maybe Terry's even ahead of the game. The problem is, that takes a lot of power, and he has to conserve it.

So he pulls a move the Local Batman would.

His targeting computer locks on to the streetlights, and he lifts his arms, shooting little discs out of the back of his hands, shattering streetlamps and plunging the area into darkness. The fires cast wavering shadows, but Batman just disappears into the night.

"I'd say give up and go home," Terry says, his voice seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. "But I'm betting you can't." He moves on silent feet, strafing through the dark to circle around behind Gruk. The next time he speaks, it's like he's whispering in -everyone's- ear at the same time. "Someone sent you here to die. You can't win this fight, and you can't go home."

From his utility belt, under the cover of darkness, he pulls a Batarang that looks like one of the classics, only with a cable attached to it. He gives it a swing, the whistle of it cutting through the air the only warning, and he throws it to try and entangle Gruk's ankles.

His only saving grace for his code is that he's not sure what Sonia is going to do.

Mary Jane Watson has posed:
Red Sonja grins at Mary Jane's fellow agent as she goes to continue ont he attack. Working out of the Batman's attacks and gadgets, she keeps up her attack on the brute. Terry goes to very, very helpfully pin Gruk in place with the line around his ankles. Where the ork will hopefully still, trying to break the rope and struggle against it, locked in place. Off-balance. This has the axe entirely out of position as it strikes her, and her slash is now aimed over at the neck of it, where hilt meets blade and wristguard. Her slash is aimed deftly over for that position. Gruk, that has seen how fast she is and that she targets weak points will hopefully act with the base cunning and instincts a veteran fighter has by going to twist the hilt inwards to use to brace it, and the normal tactic would be to try and pin her or limit her ability to evade. At least, that's what the normal tactic of a veteran fighter with an orc's size would be in her era.

But Sonja backpedals at just the last moment before she's going in for the elbow, and instead she goes to hack up with her blade towards the grip of the weapon. Orkish steel is hopefully no match for asgardian, and her intent is to hopefully simply cleave his axe down the middle, leaving it nothing but a pole if at all possible.

With his weapon hopefully destroyed, Sonja goes to slash up and over with her basterd sword, serrated with jagged edges along it while cackling, going to try and aim it for the center of his neck if at all possible while hopefully Gruk is still locked in place. Her intent being to try and remove his head from his shoulders.

Amy Winston has posed:
Gruk feels the tug at his ankles as the Batarang snags him, and a growl of frustration erupts from deep within his throat. The shadows around him swirl with confusion, but the whisper of Terry's voice sends a ripple of anger coursing through his veins.

"Die?!" he bellows, the sound reverberating like thunder. "You think I'm here to die? I'll send you back to whatever hole you crawled from, little bat!"

With a forceful yank, Gruk attempts to break free from the entangling line, muscles straining as he shifts his weight. The chains of the trap pull at him, but he snarls and lunges forward, his powerful frame propelling him with a fierce determination.

As Red Sonja dances around him, Gruk's instincts kick in. He braces himself, twisting his grip on the axe, ready to counter her strike. He sees her blade arc towards his weapon, aiming to sever it. "You think you can best me?" he roars, his voice dripping with contempt. "Your Asgardian steel is no match for an orc's might!"

But she's fast-too fast. Gruk feels the bite of her blade slice through his axe, splintering the heavy weapon in two. His eyes widen in shock, but he doesn't falter. As the remnants of his axe fall away, he lunges forward with a reckless roar, aiming to catch her off guard in a wild flurry of strikes, seeking to overpower her before she can land the fatal blow.

"Foolish warrior! I'll make you regret underestimating me!" he snarls, muscles coiling with the promise of violence. He swings a fist, aiming to knock her away, while also searching for an opportunity to break free of the Batarang's binding.

"Your time ends here!" he bellows, rage and adrenaline coursing through him as he prepares to turn the tide of this chaotic battle.

Amy Winston has posed:
The orc's bloodshot eyes widen as his massive knife arcs through the air, missing Voodoo with each swing. He feels his strength wane, the gash along his ribs throbbing and wet as blood continues to pour from the deep wound. His confidence falters as she sidesteps him with ease, her eyes sharp and calculating. She's toying with him, testing his reflexes, and he knows it.

With a guttural roar, the orc lunges one final time, his last desperate attempt to take her down. His muscles strain as he commits to the swing, overextending himself in his fury. But it's exactly what she was waiting for. In a flash, Voodoo's knee strikes his jaw with brutal force, sending a shockwave of pain through his skull. His head snaps back, and before he can recover, her claws are upon him.

A wet, sickening sound fills the air as she rips out his throat, sinew and muscle tearing like wet paper. The orc gurgles, his hands clawing weakly at his neck, but it's futile. Blood gushes from the wound, painting his chest in crimson as his body staggers, the last vestiges of life draining from his eyes. His massive form crumples to the ground, twitching for a moment before going still.

His motorcycle, abandoned in the heat of the fight, skids on its side, sparks flying as it screeches to a halt a few feet away. The orc's body lies in a growing pool of blood, lifeless, another victim of his own arrogance.

The trio of orcs stands in a circle, grinning wickedly as they witness Silverdane's anguish, their laughter echoing through the chaos of the street. Their eyes gleam with savage delight, reveling in the sight of the werewoman's suffering. One orc, a hulking brute with scars crisscrossing his face, leans on his club, mocking her.

"Look at her squirm! It's like watching a rat caught in a trap!" he roars, slapping his knee as he guffaws, the sound deep and guttural.

"Pathetic!" cackles another, a wiry orc with a chipped tusk. "And we thought we'd have a challenge tonight! Where's your strength, beast? I bet you're tasty!" He jabs a finger in her direction, the malice in his tone almost palpable.

As Silverdane writhes, the third orc, slightly more composed, grins and hefts a massive axe, stepping forward. "Let's finish her off! I can still smell the burnt fur. It makes my mouth water!"

But just as they prepare to close in, a shimmering portal opens nearby, and the air crackles with magic. Amy Winston emerges, her combat dress gleaming in the dim light, and without hesitation, she kneels beside Silverdane.

"Get to cover! I can treat you there!" she shouts, her voice firm and commanding as emerald light envelops her hands. The spell pulses with energy, seeking to mend the werewoman's injuries.

The orcs, caught off guard by the sudden arrival, exchange glances of surprise. "What is this?" the brute snarls, brandishing his club defensively. "Another little witch? Get her!"

But before they can react, Amy unleashes blasts of energy from her gauntlets, each blast striking true and sending the orcs stumbling back. "I won't let you hurt her any longer!" she declares, focusing on buying Silverdane a precious moment to withdraw and regroup.

The orc trio hisses and curses as they struggle against the magical onslaught, the once-confident grins now replaced with uncertainty. "Get her! She's just a girl!" the scarred brute bellows, rallying his companions, but they can feel the tide turning against them. The air is thick with tension as they prepare to charge back into the fray.

Priscilla Kitaen has posed:
Priscilla Kitaen flicks her head towards what she's told is Batman. She's never seen Batman. She heard he didn't like killers. Didn't need that kind of heat.

Hard to step away, though. Pris was a creature of violent emotions and passions - her dual nature, Kherubim and Daemonite, angel and devil, cold cruelty with fiery hate, great wisdom tempered with a vigorous physicality. Animal and spirit, all mingled into one.

Voodoo.

She flicks the blood from her claw and starts to use her psionics to push away attention, tucking her bloodsoaked hand, once again a hand, back into her jacket. The other hand draws up her hood. Maybe a street taco would be okay. They probably wouldn't be too tainted, right? She heard they ate rats in Gotham.

Oh well. Maybe Gotham rats taste good?

Belinda Gutierrez has posed:
Pain is a distant companion, come and gone in life so many times that it barely registers anymore, But fire-- the pain of fire. That hurts, that remains, and every nerve screams in protest as Silverdane groans slowly, clambering back to her feet in shaky defiance.

"...will need more," she rumbles huskily, fur scorched, singed. Running on adrenaline now-- rumbling as she pushes herself forward, tensing as muscles shiver. One eye casting about for that evil fire-chucker.

Everything *hurts*.

Mary Jane Watson has posed:
This si going to hurt. This is going to hurt very badly. The fist from Gruk slams over into Sonja's face. There's a brutal SNAP as her jaw breaks, and her head snaps around at an angle that almost would have snapped her neck. She stumbles back several steps, managing to keep her blades in hand. Gruk hopefully isn't in a position where he can immediately take advantage of his opening by struggling over with the Bat-Line about his ankles and what will likely be the followup from the Bat.

Red Sonja snaps one hand up to -POP- her jaw back over into place with a brutal snap like one was resetting a disjointed limb, ignoring the pain. "You fight with the strength of a leper in the throes of death. Pathetic." He's going berserk now and is enraged. Which will enhance his strength and speed considerably.. But also mean he will fight with no skill nor particular cunning, going for the overwhelming power of his strength.

She goes to yell at The Batman in Japanese, "He's going to go mad and attack. Like a Hulk." That is her summation of Orc tactics. The Batman according to legend speaks all known (and unknown) languages, and so Sonja gives her quick statement in a language that the Orc hopefully cannot understand.

While her foe is in a battle rage and is attacked on both sides, Sonja goes for rapid strikes iwth her blades. Slashes at the stomach where the armor has been weakened by previous attacks. Strikes that likely will do little damage and just annoy him further or have him be annoyed. She's intent on just hacking off enough of the armor to make an opening, a vulnerable point in it. Which seems counter-intuitive given the fact a batlte mad orc's torso should be almost invulnerable without armor, and it isn't even serving to slow him down. But she would keep up with her attacks, shifting from her strategy to keep up her assault.

She calls out to Voodoo, "Come and join the fun! Find out how their entrails taste and see if it is filling!" Seeing if the Daemonite Hybrid would find that invigorating enough to return to the fight. "Since they interrupted your repast."

Amy Winston has posed:
As Silverdane struggles to rise, Amy steps into the fray, her stance resolute and her eyes sparkling with determination. Her aura pulses with vibrant energy, the light refracting through the amethyst crystals adorning her attire. She raises her hands, palms facing outward, as the air around her begins to shimmer with arcane power.

"Your flames cannot intimidate me, beast!" she declares, her voice ringing out clear and strong above the chaos. The ground beneath her feet thrums in response to her command, resonating with the magic she channels.

With a swift motion, she gathers the energy into a swirling vortex of deep purple light. As the orc mage stands defiantly, preparing to unleash another torrent of fire, Amy thrusts her hands forward, sending a stream of radiant amethyst energy cascading toward him.

"Amethyst Burst!" she shouts, the words crackling with power. The spell explodes upon contact, engulfing the orc in a dazzling burst of violet flames that dance with an otherworldly grace. The air crackles as the heat dissipates, leaving only silence in its wake.

The orc mage, caught off guard, staggers back, his defiance and life extinguished as he us burned to ash.

Gruk snarls as Red Sonja taunts him, her words barely registering through the crimson haze of his battle rage. His blood pumps louder than the clash of steel, louder than the Bat-line tightening around his ankles, louder than anything but the primal roar building in his chest. Pain? The thought amuses him, if only for a fleeting moment. Pain means nothing to him now. Only the fight, only blood.

"You think this is enough to stop Gruk?! You insult me, human!" he bellows, voice booming across the battlefield. His strength surges as fury courses through his veins, turning his movements into a whirlwind of raw power.

Sonja's blades strike at him, their steel biting into his flesh where the armor had weakened, but Gruk laughs. A deep, guttural sound, devoid of mirth-just hunger. He tears at the Bat-line around his ankles with a savage jerk, snapping the tether as if it were nothing but thread. His eyes lock onto Sonja, glowing with murderous intent.

"You will scream before the end, warrior-woman," Gruk growls, spittle flying from his tusks as he rushes toward her, his massive fists raised for the kill. "I'll crush you like the insect you are. No armor, no cunning-only death!"

He swings at her with wild abandon, his muscles bulging as each strike shatters the earth beneath his feet. His attacks lack precision, but the sheer force behind them would topple giants. He cares not for tactics or strategy, only that he smashes, destroys, annihilates.

"You think you know orcs?" Gruk sneers between strikes, the berserker rage sharpening his tone. "You'll learn, Red Sonja. You'll learn."

Amy Winston has posed:
So close, he can feel it - the break, the moment when she will fall before him like so many before her. But then... a shimmer of violet light catches his eye.

The world narrows. The battlefield fades as Gruk turns, his gaze locking onto something - someone - standing amidst the chaos.

Amethyst.

The sorceress stands tall, radiating with the power of her crystals, her presence a beacon of magic that cuts through his fury. Gruk's eyes widen in recognition, the rage faltering for a split second as the memory of the amethyst burst from before floods his mind. His blood boils, but now it's tinged with something unexpected - fear.

"You," he growls, his voice thick with hatred and disbelief. "I have been sent to I crush you, sorceress!"

His attention snaps to her fully, the battle with Sonja forgotten. He lunges toward Amethyst, teeth bared and fists ready to tear her apart. But in that single, fatal moment of distraction, he leaves himself open.

A quick, precise strike. The steel pierces Gruk's exposed side, slipping between the gaps in his battered armor. The blade digs deep, driving into his heart.

Gruk freezes, his towering form suddenly rigid. His eyes widen in shock, looking down at the blade protruding from his chest, his lips curling in a snarl. The berserker rage dims in his eyes as his legs falter.

"You... will never... defeat Gruk," he rasps, blood spilling from his mouth.

But it's too late. With a final gasp, Gruk's mighty form collapses, hitting the ground with a resounding thud. The battlefield falls silent for a heartbeat as the leader of the Iron Tusk Raiders breathes his last.

As Gruk's massive form crashes to the ground, the battlefield seems to hold its breath. The remaining orcs, once filled with the bloodlust of battle, now exchange uneasy glances, their leader felled before them. For a brief, tense moment, the din of combat is replaced by the soft hum of the engines from their crude, growling motorcycles.

One by one, the orcs shift their gaze between the fallen chieftain and the towering figure of Amethyst, her presence casting a shadow over them. Her amethyst crystals still flicker with lingering magic, a silent warning. They look back at Red Sonja, her bloodied blade gleaming, and then to the distant figure of the Bat, ever watchful.

An orc at the front - his tusked face contorted in anger and fear - clenches the handlebars of his motorcycle. He snarls but doesn't make a move to avenge Gruk. Instead, he revs the engine, his eyes narrowing in bitter calculation.

"Fall back!" he finally bellows in Orcish, his voice strained with reluctant acceptance. "The fight is lost! We retreat!"

The other orcs hesitate for only a moment before they follow suit, mounting their motorcycles. The machines roar to life, the sound filling the battlefield as they spin around in defeat. Dust kicks up as their tires tear into the earth, and one by one, the Iron Tusk Raiders turn their backs on the fight, speeding off into the distance.

Their once-mighty presence dwindles to nothing more than a fading echo of engines on the wind. The battlefield is left in uneasy silence, punctuated by the faint rustle of dust settling where the orcs once stood.

Amethyst watches them go, her eyes narrowing. "They'll be back," she murmurs quietly, the glow of her crystals dimming.

Terry McGinnis has posed:
Terry notes the appearance of Amethyst. He doesn't know magic from physics, but he can see in the dark. He can see the orcs' reaction.

This is handled.

The Batman fades into obscurity, his optic camo mixing with the natural shadows, and it's like he was never there.

A complete Batman move.

Belinda Gutierrez has posed:
Silverdane can't quite bring herself to stalk after, pursue the fleeing orcs. One by one , then as a pack-- engines roaring as they races away. Batman can stop them, should he want. Or maybe Pretty Purple Princess Power...

"...they are gone?" she finally manages, stoically glaring at the retreating backs. Then settliong with a rbeath, sitting down *hard*.

"...ow-ow-ow-ow," she manages, a gruff whisper. "My everything hurts. Everything. Even my tail...." Glance about, sniff scent-- smoldering fur, burned flesh, bacon and beef and bacon and chicken and food and---

"...Murcielago?" she whispers, gazing about, searching for the Man, the Myth, the--

"...ow," she repeats again, grimacing. Batman-- gone! Glower.

Mary Jane Watson has posed:
Her blades drank of blood. But not as much as she would have liked. Red Sonja looks mildly annoyed with herself, but glances down at the corpse. Then at his killer, "Well struck." SHe would dip her head to the Princess of Gemworld, and then go to cross her blades.. Taking up a bit of cloth from one of the culled orcs to use it to rapidly wipe off the weapons of gore, seemingly uncaring about the bits all over her body. Then with that she would go to put them back over into their sheathes.

"That was fun. Cowards that ran away as soon as they took casualties. Proper ones would have fought to the death." She would glare at the portals that the orcs had fled to.

"They should be pursued to remind them that they cannot escape a coward's fate and their heads put on pikes for all to see."

Amy Winston has posed:
Amy's gaze softens as she watches the retreating orcs vanish into the horizon, their roars of retreat mingling with the settling dust. Her grip on the arcane energy slowly loosens as she lets out a steady breath, the tension melting from her shoulders. She turns to Silverdane, kneeling beside her with graceful ease, hands already glowing with the soft, soothing light of healing magic.

"I'm not pursuing them," Amy responds gently, her voice calm but resolute as she focuses on Silverdane's wounds, the amethyst glow enveloping her companion. "The battle is over-for now. There's no need to chase after cowards when there's still pain to tend to here."

As the healing magic weaves into Silverdane's scorched fur, her eyes flicker toward Red Sonja. A small smile touches her lips at the warrior's praise. "Thank you," she says with a respectful nod, though the weight of the moment is more focused on her fallen comrade than the fight. "But my blades are here to protect, not to seek vengeance."

Sonja's desire to chase down the fleeing orcs, to punish them for their cowardice, makes Amy pause. She meets the warrior's gaze with calm authority, the shimmering aura around her hands pulsing gently as she speaks.

"Sometimes, the strongest blow is knowing when not to strike." Her voice is steady, compassionate. "There's no honor in taking life just to prove a point. Let them run. They'll learn soon enough that they can't outrun their own cowardice."

Amy's attention returns to Silverdane, her magic flowing like a soft current. "For now, we heal. And when the time comes, we'll be ready to fight again, but not out of anger. Only out of necessity."

Belinda Gutierrez has posed:
"I'm not-- ow --that hurt --ow --does anyone else need-- ow."

The perfect patient, Silverdane shuffles grumpily... and biting her lip as the great wolfwoman shivers from tip to tail to toe. No hiding the effect-- the mystic energy draws a cascade of whimperiong exhales from her; she sags to her knees as she bends her head with a faint grimace.

"What was that?" she asks, mystified. "Not a flamethrower, un echador de llama." She bites back a whimper as lupine lfesh, fueld by the purple-hued healing energies, reasserts itself; quivering anew, subtly shiufting, rekindling once more as fur shifts and shivers and grows, moving back into places scorched nearly to the skin by the orc's spell.

"Also," she manages, grumbling quietly. "Ow. But gracias, thank you." Sigh. "And in front of Batman..." Pause.

"...it was Batman, si?" she asks, glancing curiously.

Mary Jane Watson has posed:
And Red Sonja would laugh, "Life is without honor. They come here to revel in slaughter. They shall not be chasened. They will come back, if not to here, then to somewhere else to rampage, ravage, and salt the Earth with blood and fire. They shall do so until there are no more left of them. For it is all that they are. Simple minded savages." Spoken like one whom is close to the same.

"Granting them mercy does nothing beyond let them repeat the slaughter once more. But, I suppose it does make for good sport to keep the edge of your blade sharp." That is the way of her world, after all.

Sonja's, not Mary Jane's.

Amy Winston has posed:
Amy lets out a small chuckle at Silverdane's grumbling, her hands still glowing as she focuses on knitting the wolfwoman's wounds back together. Her tone, though gentle, carries a firmness that brooks no argument.

"Hold Still," Amy says, her voice a mix of command and reassurance. "You're not going anywhere until I finish this. The last thing I need is you running off while half-burnt and limping."

As Silverdane shivers and shifts beneath the healing magic, Amy presses her hands more firmly into the werewolf's fur, the amethyst energy pouring out in waves, soothing and renewing. She doesn't flinch at the whimpers, used to the discomfort that comes with mending wounds this deep.

"It wasn't a flamethrower," Amy replies, focusing on the work while speaking. "It was raw magic; something designed to hurt, to sear right down to the bone. Lucky for you, my magic's a little more... gentle."

At Silverdane's mention of Batman, Amy rolls her eyes, her lips quirking into an amused smile. "Why, did you want an autograph?" she asks playfully.

The weight of Sonja's words doesn't shake her, but they do stir something deep within. She crosses her arms, her expression serious yet tinged with that ever-present compassion that defines her.

"Honor isn't about them, Sonja. It's about us-about who we choose to be, no matter how brutal the world around us is." Her voice carries a quiet strength, a stark contrast to the fiery warrior before her. "They may return, yes. And when they do, we'll fight them again. We'll stop them. But we don't have to become them in the process."

She glances toward the horizon where the orcs disappeared, the dust from their retreat still faintly visible. "Mercy isn't weakness. It's a reminder that we still have control, that we aren't just slaves to bloodlust and revenge. There's a power in knowing when to fight and when to let go."

Her gaze returns to Sonja, and though there's no challenge in her tone, there's a firm conviction. "I don't grant mercy because it sharpens my blade. I grant it because it sharpens my spirit. We aren't defined by what we fight against-we're defined by how we choose to stand in the face of it."

Amy steps closer, her amethyst eyes meeting Sonja's with calm intensity. "And believe me, when they come back, I'll be ready. But until then, I won't chase shadows just to prove I can. There's more to this fight than just bodies on the battlefield."

With that, she turns back to Silverdane, her voice softening again. "Let's save our strength for when it's truly needed."

Belinda Gutierrez has posed:
Silverdane chuffs anew, tensing and flexing and releasing her fists. Sharp ears perk in surprise, eyes widening; she flexes again, this time going through a slow, growing series of twists, stretches, testing each muscle in motion and movement in turn.

"It does not hurt," she murmurs in quiet wonder, releasing a breath she did not know she was holding in a long exhale. ?And... si, yes. It--? She bites back for a heartbeat, focusing her words as she remembers herself. ?....it is complcated,? she begins, glancing off towards the distant darkness. Lost Dark Knight! "Am hunting in his city, his territory," she continues, explaining as she draws herself back to sitting upright. Much better now, with pains a vanished memory! "Owe a steak," she continues, ears fanning sheepishly.

"....perhaps two," she admits, eyes turning towards the Batburger. Nostrils quivering. Turning back sharply!

"Raw magic?" she asks, head tilting. as her gaze turns from Sonya to Amethyst and back.

Mary Jane Watson has posed:
Mary Jane Watson would laugh, "Oh, you presume that we come from different worlds." She means her and the orcs, not her and Amy. "That is the way it is. You do not have to walk along their path. Perhaps it is for the better." T he barbarian looks ever so relaxed now as she goes to flick some of the gore off her body.

"You will stop them, perhaps. But thye will come and come again, and each time they will destroy more until all of them are gone." That is the way she views it. The orcs may in fact not operate that way. But in her realm.. That is what humanity has become. They fight. They slaughter. When there is no one left to cull they fall upon themselves. Only the strong shall survive.

Sonja gives a respectful bow (by the barbarian's standards), jaw hanging loose and cracked.

Amy Winston has posed:
Amy watches Silverdane with a soft smile as the werewolf flexes and stretches, her newfound ease evident. She's glad the healing worked-there's always a sense of relief when magic does its job well. "Told you to stay put for a reason," she quips lightly. "You're good as new."

As Silverdane continues, talking about hunting in the Dark Knight's territory and owing him a steak or two Amy's lips twitch into a wry smile. "Yeah, that sounds about right. Just make sure it's rare-wouldn't want to disappoint him." Her eyes briefly flick to the Batburger, amusement in her tone as she imagines the brooding vigilante's reaction to a werewolf's culinary debt.

But as the conversation shifts, and Sonja speaks of their worlds and the endless cycle of violence, Amy's expression hardens. She understands Sonja's worldview, the harshness that shaped her, but it doesn't sit right with her.

"No, Sonja," Amy says, her voice steady. "I don't think that's the way it has to be. Just because they come again and again doesn't mean we stop trying to end the cycle. We fight, yes but not because we love the slaughter or crave the bloodshed. We fight so maybe, just maybe, we can stop it from happening to someone else."

She steps forward, her gaze meeting Sonja's with quiet resolve. "I get it. In your world, strength is survival, and mercy is weakness. But where I come from-where we come from-it's more complicated than that. It's not just about killing the enemy. It's about protecting those who can't protect themselves."

Amy gestures toward the darkness where the orcs retreated. "They'll come back. We know that. But when they do, we'll be here. And we'll stop them. Not because we have to prove something to ourselves, but because it's the right thing to do."

"Now, do you want to be healed, or not?"