Logs:Cleansing Fire

Cleansing Fire
cn: Violence, body horror, Nazis
Dramatis Personae Odin?, Muninn?? Huginn?!, Crazy Train, Ion, Wolfcub Thing ∅, Tian-shin
In Absentia	2024-10-24 "Damn, y'all don't play." (Soon after an interruption during church.)
Location <NYC> Huginn's Perch - Eltingville - Staten Island
This place is always lively at night, a bustling pub that serves plenty of locals. Well, plenty of white locals. Well, plenty of white locals who don't want to be drinking anywhere this neighborhood's scant few people of color might show up. Inside it's crowded, some blank folky music spilling out into the lot whenever people come in and out. Behind the pub, the club that owns the place is currently gathered in force, near all the Swords here tonight for the excitement of welcoming their newest members. This ceremony has been ongoing some while -- some while longer than it really needs to, because between the ritual and Deep's pontificating things have stretched out a bit. But, finally, they are closing in on the real meat of the evening. Mountain is, with extreme solemnity, bringing out three ornately carved wooden boxes. Bestowing the boxes on three other Swords. Hurricane and Wick and Brandt are bearing these (also with immense solemnity) to their three newest recruits, unlatching the boxes and opening them up to display the clean and new vests within, emblazoned with the Swords' motif and patched, finally, after this long prospective period, with their new names, Odin and Huginn and Muninn. "You came to us," Deep is saying, "just three of many seeking to leave behind the degenerate ways of the mongrel world. The others were too weak. Too uncommitted. But you three have what it takes to see our people into the future. You knelt as nothing," here the other Swords are taking the cuts to bestow them upon the waiting Prospects, "but you will rise forged into the Swords that will cleanse this city." At his side, Mountain is somehow managing to look pleased even though his stony grim expression. Behind them most of the Swords are crossed between trying to remain Extremely Solemn and getting antsy for food and drinks and celebrating. Wick, with Huginn's vest, is grinning thin and sharp and nasty. Brandt, with Muninn's, is trying to hide his small uncomfortable fidgeting like he kiiiind of wished he went to the bathroom before all this started. Hurricane is just giving a small proud nod to the new Odin. Kal Odin, now, is slipping his cut on, flexing his shoulders as if he needs to test the fit, as if he doesn't already know it's sized perfectly for his broad-tall frame. He rises. He's sweeping the assembled Swords with a steady look, fingers touching lightly to the new name patch on his new vest. "Cleanse this city," he echoes, a slow growing smile on his bearded face. There's a small rumble from the ground, just a little quiver like he is lightly flexing his terrakinesis in his pleased excitement. He looks down the line, to his brothers, head tipping up just a smidge, and then back to Deep. "Shit, yeah, y'know, we really can't wait to start." Kamil Muninn has been fidgeting in front of Brandt for much of the ceremony, not as much from need-to-pee as from restlessness he's long been unable to tame, a humming live wire of nervy, eager desperation pitching up and down, in a way that suggests to Brandt's senses, at least, that he has been spending this time in happy, anticipatory reflection and not listening to Deep's doubtless very moving oration. The perennial wateriness of his eyes is taking on an extra-manly sheen as he shoulders his cut and gets to his feet, darting a glance aside at Huginn, suddenly just a liiittle bouncy on his toes. "Thank you so much for this opportunity" comes with a shivery thrill of pleasure in his voice. "... god damn I thought he never shut the fuck up." Ion has been chilling, slouched comfortable against his bike's handlebars. He's parked at a comfortable remove from Nazis though he's watching the procedures with a distinct lack of interest where a jewel-bright beetle drone is projecting nice clear sound and video for them. When the Prospects actually start to become Full Fledged Swords, though, he's bounding off his bike, almost (but not quite) eager in the bounce on his toes, the clap of his hands. "-- don't know what happen to these fucks, the guys I met in Mendeleev I woulda had some beers with. {We go?}" Thing ∅ isn't commenting. She's just perched, cross-legged atop the seat of her parked bike, watching the feed from her spying drone with a steadily blank expression. She's also getting up when the vests come out, but unlike Ion, the flex of her claws and quiver of her gills is very much eager for blood. Tian-shin is also sitting on her bike, looking weirdly prim with her own (literal) sword in its scabbard lying across her lap. She stirs at Ion's question, and looks at the projection, her expression intensely neutral. "I'm sure they thought they were trading up, but they've only traded away their honor." She stands up, gripping but not drawing her sword. "{...and maybe their lives, too.}" She looks to their president expectantly. Kass Huginn is rounding out the triple Ks getting inducted tonight. He's been calm, he's usually calm, a steady but fierce determination building underneath his placid exterior as the night wears on. He shrugs a little stiffly into his vest. His eyes meet Wick's, and then turn aside to his brothers. He says nothing, just nods. Firm. There's an electric thrill running through him, probably to be expected after the long year working toward this, but the fury -- maybe that shouldn't be there. There's not much time at all to consider its meaning, though, because as he claps his hands together, an immense blast of air pummels into Wick, slamming him back towards the assembled Swords. The Swords don't know quite how to take this, at first. Some of them are snickering, just a little; Wick's nobody's favorite within this group, either. Ragnar is grimacing like he's got a very unpleasant duty to fulfill in telling the no-longer-prospect very sternly: "Don't let that cut go to your fucking head. Can't dick around just because you aren't a prospect anymore, we still --" This is trailing off as a sharp wariness spills out from Brandt, who is staring hard at Huginn -- then the other two -- then Huginn like he's trying desperately to put some kind of puzzle together. All he's managing just yet is: "What the fuck?" Crazy Train has been pacing, slow and meditative, and the swift turn of her attention back onto the projection comes with unnerving intensity. "Don't really care what happened to them, but I'm guessing what happened was they traded their honor for safety, long ago. That's 'bout to backfire real spectacular." She looks to Ion, and raises up her hand like she's getting ready to start a street race, but just when she's about to drop it the induction ceremony explodes into chaos. "Waymint." Her affect has been fairly flat all evening, but now she looks distinctly shocked. "What the fuck?" Odin(?) is not waiting for the confusion to resolve itself. He's clapped a hand to Hurricane's shoulder. Firm, thumping, it would be very bro-like if not for the way he's pushing down, ground below flowing as easily as if he were pushing the other man into quicksand and not into solid hard pavement. The rumbling, now, together with his focused antipathy, might be harbinger of a different flex altogether. There are cracks starting to form beneath Ragnar's feet, the ground abruptly quite unstable. Against the rumbling his voice is oddly cheerful. "C'mon, a whole year of listening to you Nazi fucks spout your garbage, I think they've earned a little dicking around." The fury is catching on, strangely still shot through with raw and overwhelming glee, Muninn(??) pulling his face unpleasantly into a bared-teeth smile. As the earth rumbles beneath him his eager bouncing turns into a very unassuming hop of excitement that drops him into -- not a crouch, his entire body distending and compressing into a squat funhouse-mirror version of himself, before it springs out to full size with an incoherent, ironically birdlike screech, launching himself at Brandt with all of his weight and quite a lot more force than seems possible with his thin frame. "FUCK YOU is what!" he says, perhaps this is not the most eloquent of comebacks but it is strongly felt. Huginn(?!) is taking another step forward, one hand slicing down -- it sends another sharp slam of wind towards the Wick and the Swords he's fallen into, battering and intense. "This is for Henney." The Swords are a little delayed in catching on to exactly what has gone terribly, terribly wrong here. The realization is coming in localized explosive bursts. Several of the pieces of rock cracked up from the pavement around Ragnar are flying up to whip hard toward Huginn -- a couple others zoom directly at the hapless Hurricane. Hurricane is buried up to his knees in the strangely flowing concrete, looking a little panicked as he tries unsuccessfully to pull himself free, but even half-buried his power is catching at the armament Ragnar throws him, whirling the rocks faster and faster and then sending one cracking towards each of the brothers. He's only a moment after the release glancing towards Muninn like he's regretting this choice. Wick is pulling away from his confused brothers-in-arms, an eager gleam in his eyes. There's a low roar as he whooshes into a blistering column of blue flame, the pavement cracking beneath him as the fire-tornado starts to whirl towards Muninn. There's an intense stab of mental pain coming from Brandt. It's hard to say, though, whether this is an intentional attack or whether he's just reflecting the agony of getting slammed so hard against the pavement, but either way it's pounding into Muninn a second after impact. Thing ∅ is dropping back to the seat of her bike. Her gills press flat. Her gauntlets retract. "Plot twist." She could sound more excited about this. "Ohshit!" Wolfcub is crouched on his bike, looking from the projection to Crazy Train and then back, mouth hanging open and tail wagging and absolutely not caring how goofy he looks. "Ohshit we should have brought some popcorn!" Odin Khalil is pushing Hurricane down a little further, then squeezing and resolidifying the earth with a muffled crack where it crushes in at the trapped Nazi's legs. The ground splits farther beneath Ragnar, a craggy sort of sinkhole crumbling beneath the man's feet. There's another crack, sharper and less muffled, at the high-speed chunk of rock that slams into his ribs, dropping him to one knee with a quiet gasp. The earth is still shaking, though, crack starting to stretch towards the Swords behind Wick. From atop Brandt, Muninn Kamil doesn't try to dodge the rock careening toward him, turning his head to give it a fierce smile as it slams into him, just sinking with disturbing ease directly into his warping face; he rocks backward on his knees with the momentum, even his neck stretching longer, until the spike of pain jars him back upright. As he springs back this time he is releasing the rock like some kind of human trebuchet, launching it at Wick as the pyrokinetic approaches him. This is the first time he's really afraid but it is overcome swiftly by a towering rage, and his roar is almost as inhuman as the rush of flame, strangely high and resonant. "Ho fuck." Ion's breathing this out quieter, brows hiking and then soon enough furrowing. He's staring hard at the feed, then past it as if he could see through the buildings to the fight itself. "Them crazies survive this, guess I still buy them some beers." Huginn Kasim in some other circumstance might have deflected the rock that shoots at him, but the sudden searing tower of flame has caught his attention with a pang of anger and ferocious glee. He does shift, remarkably fluid for his size, to mostly dodge Ragnar's first blows -- one of the rocks leaves a bloodied streak across his cheek -- but it's the harder shot from Hurricane that actually has him staggering back where his knee has just given an unpleasant crack. He's not dropping, though, standing his ground -- a swirling vortex of air starts to whirl around the column of Wick-flame. It's radiating heat fierce and dangerous around it, but inside it the oxygen has been sucked clean out. Several of the unranked Swords are taking this opportunity to flee -- they've watched these guys in action for a year now, they are not sticking around to defend Wick of all people. One of the men stumbles, one leg dropping into the growing crack; the others are fleeing sideways away from it. Others, though, have at least a smidge more loyalty, or maybe a smidge more fear of reprisal if they turn tail through this assault. One of the newer inductees only here a few months longer than the Viking Brothers, is staring them down with fierce hate in his eyes. Through the pavement there is grass starting to grow, or something grasslike, thick and viney where it's breaking apart the ground. Several ropes of it, tough and starting to bristle with thorns, are grasping up at the no-longer-raven-brothers, stretching jagged tendrils around boots and up Kasim and Kamil's legs. Mountain is rising into the air with an absurd kind of gracefulness -- practically a pirouette where he twirls himself into an angle to slam back down, boots-first, toward Kasim's injured knee. The suddenly more sluggish gravity around Kasim together with the creeping vines add some extra layers of difficulty to his nimble-dodging trick. Deep has vanished, but in his place there's an angry whirlwind of sand. His first pass around whips past each brother in turn, searing and biting hard at skin. Somewhere within the flame, Wick yelps. The startled pain at the first projectile turns into a panic when he's enclosed. The struggling from inside starts to lick brief gouts of flame unpredictable and wild out of the swirling-suffocating vortex. Khalil, now, is feeling a brief pang of fear -- less so on his own behalf and moreso as he looks to his brothers. He's getting back to his feet, eyes closed tight against the tearing sting of the living sandstorm. His muscles have all tensed, fingers squeezing into a claw shape like he's trying hard to get hold of something, trying to grasp at something he can't quite reach -- but after another intense effort his power is starting to latch on to that whirling sandstorm, with a grunt of effort yanking to try and turn it from its current assault and towards Mountain instead. Kamil's face is drooping slackly -- actually most of his skin is, sagging and stretching with chewed-gum elasticity away from him where the thorny vines are digging toothily into him; he's flinging a hand desperately for Kasim's shoulder, to extend his instant-rebound trick to his brother as Mountain hurtles toward him, that roar faltering rather distinctly into a thin cry of pain as Deep whips across him -- tears are falling fast and sudden down his face, stinging where the whirlwind has already ripped at his skin. "A-h-h --" It's low and grunted, and Kasim is kind of equal parts leaning into Kamil's outstretched hand and falling towards it, his broken leg unwilling to support his weight as the sandstorm has him stumbling in pain. There's a brief and reflexive instant where he's shifting his focus, a whoosh of wind starting to push back at the sandstorm. This only lasts a second, though; the split focus starts to have the bubble around Wick wavering and he snaps his attention back there to keep starving the fire of its oxygen. Mountain collides with Kasim a moment after the sandstorm passes -- not, perhaps, to the effect he intended. He's rebounding -- also maybe less rapidly than he ought, stabilizing himself in his own strange bubble of gravity and bearing a thicker, weightier sluggishness down on the three Brothers. He's rerouting, careening this time for Khalil in an absurd Superman-pose, fist aiming towards the eldest brothers face. When that bubble wavers, a gout of flame licks out towards the brothers, lashing like a blistering whip against the three of them. It's soon enough contained again, and the column is noticeably shrinking, Wick's actual human form growing more distinct again within the fiery vortex until the fire gutters out. Wick has collapsed, pale and unconscious in the bottom of the still-suffocating whirlwind. The sandstorm that is Deep has been gearing up for another pass, but it's wrenched jarringly out of its path. Yanks hard to try and get back into it. It ends up a confused muddle, whirling around Mountain for just a moment on his descent but then lashing backwards to settle in an angry hiss around Khalil. The vines, meanwhile, are just climbing hungrily higher, wrapping up past knees towards thighs with scratchy tearing scrapes of thorns against skin and fabric alike. Somewhere within the sandstorm is a roar of agony. Khalil's power is lashing out, strong but wild, reaching for what grains of sand he can grab hold of and just pushing more or less at random. This attempt gutters out when Mountain's fist collides with him; there's another sick quiet crunch, his strong features now considerably more lopsided than they were. He's falling back -- grabbing at Mountain to keep the other man with him, the earth pulling up like a growing cocoon around the both of them. Tian-shin has not sat back down. "Did they spend a year infiltrating the Swords just to snuff Wick out in front of his whole club?" This is equal parts incredulous and admiring. "What epic vengeance!" Kamil recovers enough of his voice for another hoarser scream; still keeping a clutch at Kasim's shoulder, his arm roped thin and wobbly between them, he whips his shoulder around to fling his other hand at where his other brother is disappearing into the rock, though when he doesn't find what he's looking for he just fumbles with weak fingers for a crumbling chunk of rock -- a moment later his arm is yoinking back to its usual length, the rock hurtling with speedball accuracy and vicious malice at the green-thumbed Sword. Kasim hisses sharp, his arm flinging up as if to ward off the flame -- it leaves burns whipped in a strange line across his face and arm. His vortex is rising into the air, buffeting Wick's unconscious body higher with it. It stops this ascent once it has flung him several stories into the air, letting the limp body hurtle back down to the pavement. "Cal --" He's calling this, hoarse, towards his disappearing brother. His teeth grit as he sinks to the ground in a tangle of vines. A ferocious blast of wind tears through the sandstorm. There's a crack, and a splat, and then there is Wick -- far less fierce than before, limbs splayed at odd angles against the scorched ground and blood starting to pool beneath his cracked skull. The rock that hurtles towards the plantbender thwacks hard and true. For a moment the vines are all squeezing harder, fiercer, but as the man crumples to the ground the plants also start to wither and fall away. Mountain is vanishing, into the earth. (Not far away, where he's only half vanished into the earth, Hurricane is whimpering in pain.) The sandstorm splits itself apart in the wind, scattering briefly but then pulling itself back together. It's veering back towards Kasim and Kamil, whirling in a furious biting frenzy around them. "-- not just Wick." Thing ∅ does not sound admiring. She sounds a little grudging. Her eyes have narrowed on the ground that Mountain disappeared into, arms crossing in a mild indignance. Mountain might be vanishing into the depths of hell a shallow parking-lot grave, but the earth itself is far more friendly to Khalil. He's pulling himself straight out of the ground, filthy, a little torn up where the sandstorm whipped past him, but in one piece. His teeth grit hard and once more he is yanking, pulling, wrenching at the Deep-sand-thing, one hand braced hard against the earth and the other outstretched as though he can physically draw it away from his brothers. Kamil is retracting one arm to pull himself closer to Kasim, dragging the other up over his head, his flesh along with the leather of his brand-new cut stretching to hang pancake-like in a shield over his face, his -- and his brother's -- skin and clothes slackening not quite elastic enough to withstand the grit of the sandstorm, thinning practically into nothing in some spots but simply ripping with bright, stinging spills of blood everywhere else. "Kill -- you --" Kamil gasps out. The sound Kasim lets out is warped and strange, half a roar and half a dust-choked scream; split the difference and there's an unearthly rasp to it. He's twisting, his face is twisting, but he isn't pulling away from his brother's distorted protection. Another blast of wind whips through the sandstorm, but after the intense exertion of containing Wick's deadly blaze it is less fierce than the earlier ones. The sandstorm has been whirling tight around the stretchy-warping brothers, but it whips away at Khalil's jerking. For a moment, between the wind and the grasp of the earthbender, it's erratic -- flinging one way, juddering back towards the younger K's, and then it turns and closes in around Khalil. Tight, close, flooding in around the eldest brother's face in a choking blanket. Crazy Train watches the proceedings so intently she hardly seems to blink. "Goddamn." This does sound impressed, but there's something else there in her strained voice, her expression tightening as the brothers' situation takes a turn for the worse. "Crazy Viking-ass motherfuckers, were they even planning to get out?" The question is evidently rhetorical, because she's mounting her bike, and then raising her voice over the gunning of the motor. "Fuck it. We going in!" Khalil's scream is rasping, too, choked rattlier and lower than it should be. His power is still clutching at the treacherous too-fluid feeling of the whirling sands, though keeping any kind of grip on it is taxing the limits of his ability to work in this slippery medium. He's coughing, hoarse, as he collapses to his back on the pavement. His voice comes out harsh and cracked, but even here his brothers might be able to hear the rough bark of laughter in it: "-- Witness me." The earth is rising up, flowing sludgy around his face and mingling thick and goopy with the whirling sand. Clearly, someone has called the cops, because there are sirens starting to scream loud in the not-so-distance. A number of quite heavily armed people are starting to lurk in the doorway of the bar, and though they do not seem all that keep to step into the middle of this mess they are watching the proceedings warily. The strange oozing earth is mixing with the sand, bogging it down. One part of the whirlwind here is stretching outward, starting to form into something almost like a hand, almost like a face -- then the lot of it, or at least what's left that hasn't mixed with Khalil's earth, is just dissolving into inert grains scattered across he ground. Ion gets back on his bike, but he doesn't turn it on. There's a flash, and he's gone -- -- from there, anyway, reappearing with a crackle in the lot behind the bar. Kind of near the messily truncated (possibly still whimpering) Hurricane. He's ignoring the injured Nazi, though, and jerking his head up to the brothers. "{Fucking iconic} but you all got some escape plan, shit. You want get out of here?" Kamil rages up to his feet, though this is about all he can do with any speed. One arm trails limp and forgotten at his side as he staggers forward, his other arm still draped tattered and trembling in front of him as a shield, though both shrink back to their usual size when he drops to his knees into the sludgy earth where Khalil disappeared, scrabbling at it with already torn and bloody fingers, heedless of the growing crowd, heedless of Ion -- "No," he says, voice raw and cracking. Kasim doesn't yet get to his feet, alarmingly pale beneath a sheen of sweat, wobbly when he moves, his leg buckling oddly beneath him. He does drag himself slow and painful towards his brothers -- or, one brother, and the warped pool of ground where his other brother was. He's staring at the earth, his palm pressed down hard against it. The closer dopplering of the sirens draws his eyes back up, looking towards the motley collection of racists in the doorway and scattered around the lot. He lifts his hand, drops it again ponderously to rest on Kamil's back. To Ion, just a small, silent lift of chin. There's a roar of overlapping engines as Crazy Train rounds the corner -- slow compared to lightning but fast by motorcycle standards -- with the rest of the Mongrels in tow. "Damn, y'all don't play," she observes mildly, taking in what's left of the Sword of Tyr in the rubble-strewn lot. "We ain't no valkyries, but you can always die gloriously another day." She guns her engine hard. "City's still got plenty of Nazis left to cleanse."