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Among the many maladies a New Yorker can experience, riots, newspaper strikes, and the impending arrival of a little British band nicknamed the Fab Four count fairly high. But Central Park suffering an invasion of vampires, hellhounds, and abyssal terrors probably constitutes a worse week than some. Though some efforts taken to quarantine off the gaping void to Hell prevent causal admission, it does not stop that sickening breach from popping up outside the borders established.
A lone young woman ought to stay on the path, but that doesn't always satisfy rules of safety. At times, being on the path merely keeps you herded by the pack of strange orange stags that smell of sulfur, the racks of their horns pierced by ragged flesh and broken, screaming souls. Wreaths of tentacles give their ruffs some impressive volume, and they clash against one another as often as bound after terrified pedestrians. This part of the park isn't exactly popular, closer to the Madison Avenue side of the park than North or south.
One of those infernal stags gores a fallen young man, his bellows of pain radiating into the morning air. It helps less these stags have rows of sharp teeth with which to eat sins. His terrified girlfriend is off running, and the bounding pack of six demons salivate over their options. Elderly man and dog, valet sort, jogger, redhead. If only the redhead was looking remotely prepared to be scourged and devoured today, rather than holding her fists at her sides, telling the jogger and the valet, "Get Grandfather out of here."
*
There were days when it would definitely be easier to stay in bed. Or at the very least stick to the original plan, but after having his work disrupted, Castle has set about looking into these new adversaries that have thrown themselves into his path, particularly this redheaded woman. Hippies. Such a problem to deal with.
Granted, this hippy was now in the midst of a mess that even Castle found himself hesitant about. Mafia? Sure. Even some of these powered individuals aren't too much of an issue. But demons? That wasn't in his normal realm of plans. The temptation to leave is high, but for the moment he observes with a contemplative furrow of his brow.
*
The burnt scent on the air might be revolting enough to turn someone's stomach. The old chap and his footstool dog shakes, glaring through rheumy eyes at the deer. "Back in my day, we'd have shot and ate you in the trenches," he tells the nearest beast in a raspy, heavy eastern European accent. Polish, maybe, or Lithuanian. The valet is backing away, grabbing the gentleman by the arm and trying to hasten tottering joints. The man being eaten continues to moan in horrors private to his own head; the jogger is already green around the gills and pale, obviously torn. He babbles, "We gotta go."
Scarlett plants her feet about shoulder width apart, her weight balanced evenly upon the balls of her feet. The bohemian dream has a certain ease to her posture that shouldn't be there, but facing a whitetail with evil horns and razor-sharp teeth is begging for a certain Flying Circus to make jokes later on. Demons at the moment are a bit too much to simply laugh at, especially facing down one. She doesn't bother to talk, interposed as the thinnest barrier known to man or beast.
Two hellbeasts spring off to chase the fleeing figures, and one is just too likely to hop after Frank. He's there, he probably has a feast of sins.
*
Frank's sins would depend on perspective really. But in his mind, that's not the concern. This isn't confessional after all, it's a warzone and that is what he knows. The temptation to walk away fades and instead he reaches to his back, beneath the coat he wears and pulls out a beautiful Colt .45. The report of the bullets is crisp and loud as shot start to ring out at the stag that is nearest him; the one that came towards him and the other that is chasing after the figures.
Do bullets work against demons? Hell if Frank knows, but it is what he has at the moment. At the very least, the sharp sounds should draw attention of the creatures pursuing the fleeing victims. "Red. The hell is this."
*
ROLL: Rogue +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 60
*
ROLL: Punisher +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 91
*
Two men trying to shuffle along an elderly vet of World War One do not move as fast as they would like. They hustle along Grandfather, his yapping dog left to run off into the bushes for a likely fatal end. The gunshots definitely hasten their efforts, and he protests upon being lifted up and shuffled out of reach. The two stags herd the trio, flanking them with the odd bouncing stride on cloven hooves.
Scarlett winces at the first gunshot, her eyes squeezed shut for a moment. That flinch might hint of weakness to the one lowering its horns and taking aim at her, springing forward to almost collide with the girl. What was supposed to happen is likely knocking her down with its greater size and strength. Instead she braves a pierced arm or gouged face by reaching for its skull, and the demon that probably intended to bound away at the last moment finds itself seized round the horns. Tines scrape her wrist and the soul-stuff screams and wails in a ghastly sound, but she stares with burning green eyes unnatural in their shade. Her boot plants to its chest in a stomping kick that takes full advantage of her height. It shouldn't be a fair fight. It /isn't/ a fair balance, but somehow she twists its head around and ignores the kick being directed by a sharp hoof. Hurt those boots, she's going to beat that thing senseless.
*
Not only does Frank shoot one of the demon stags in the head with an early shot, but he continues to unload the complete clip into the creature. Black brain matter oozes forth, sizzling the grass some as it comes into contact with it and leaving it dried out and dead. The clip is expelled, a new one replacing it as Frank pulls up to shoot at the Stag coming even closer to the trio trying to escape. The whiny adult that is trying to help gramps finds himself covered quickly in that sticky black matter when the bullets start to rip through the Demon creature to end it and send it thrashing to the ground, hissing and howling as it spins around.
"If you aren't out of here in 30 seconds, I'm going to shoot you myself." He growls towards the group before turning back to see how Scarlett is fairing, a frown etching his face as he against reaches for a new clip of bullets.
*
Do demon stags have bones? Not exactly; they are made more of 'stuff' than actual biological substances. The stag tosses her up in anticipation of its fellow goring her underside, and it might work…
… did she not simply hang in midair, still seizing the monstrous beast by its horns and worse. She utters an infuriated sound, and swings around with considerable focus grooved on her fair face. Eyes narrow, and that pretty orange dress ripples as she hurls the stag airborne. Not a little, but on a high arc that involves many flailing legs and bleating. An open shot on the second bounding monster might be possible at this rate, though. The duo chasing the fleeing humans take bites at the jogger, who lashes out with an arm in a flail.
*
Were Frank knowing that he was going to be needing multiple rounds this evening he would have brought them. Usually following someone doesn't require a lot of bullets; but that's just poor preparation and a mistake he won't make again. Facing two decision, Frank glances at the fleeing jogger and then back towards Scarlett. A quiet growl escapes his lips as he takes quick aim and let's loose the full clip at the creature that is closer to Rogue. The snapping report of the gun falls quiet as the last shell is expended and then Frank is running at a bounding gait towards the pair of creatures chasing the humans, perhaps too late but it was a calculation he had to make.
*
ROLL: Punisher +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 24
*
ROLL: Rogue +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 3
*
One stag is unfortunately airborne, the other desperately trying to jump at a woman too high to reach. Frustration keeps the demon dancing in place until it decides there isn't any further hope, and some man is firing at it. Apparently care for its companion landing with a mangled crunch has no concern, and it springs out of the way, oozing a strange form of smoking gore from its side. From the way its spindly legs move, fair to assume the maddened creature is in a bad state, but still up, plunging towards the shooter. Frank now has one inbound demon, and a middle manager demon springing from the other side.
Alas, the jogger takes more than a nasty swipe for his punch. That demon rams its horns straight through his viscera and lifts him up, the horrified valet and old man shouting in horror and terror. A prong goes right through the twitching fellow's eye, and his face is bloodied in a heart beat, transfixed by terror in a primal, howling wail. Another demon dines. The herding one snaps its teeth furiously at the stumbling humans, almost greedy and wrathful, and it belches out a sickly miasma. "Yessss, ssssuffer your punishmentssss—" too eager a hiss by half drips from its maw. And while they try to scramble away from dancing hooves, the redhead doesn't even bother to take to the ground and run over. She simply drops out of the sky onto the beast, slamming into its flank.
*
The stags or the middle management. Frank is really stuck here and he glares over now at Scarlett. He caught her floating in the air, and he snaps at the woman. "Get your ass moving!" Moving where he probably doesn't even know himself. His eyes turn and focus on the middle manager demon. What was intending to be a run to stop the stags has now turned into a bull rush towards the Demon. It seems in charge, perhaps it'll back the rest off.
Although it does pain him a bit to leave the old man and valet on their own for the moment, there just doesn't seem to be another outlet for him.
*
Scarlett's trajectory is airborne; not even an Olympian can leap that distance unassisted, and certainly not hanging suspended like a crystal drop several meters off the ground. She isn't long for the air now, though, grounding the other stag going after the valet and the old man. Her weight may not be much, but the two of them tumble over in a lashing of torn leggings, kicking feet, streaming hair and smoking horns. The bleating shouts and the gasp of effort speaks to the violence performed on an avowed pacifist. The valet hauls up the old man by the arm, and they half hobble, half run down the path.
Middle manager demons don't look much different save for the tentacles around their necks like a lion's mane. The two of them, staggered about five yards apart, give not exactly the clearest shot as their frills ripple and undulate in sickening, hypnotic fashions. One of them prances and paws the ground, yellow eyes flaring in what might be excitement. Is that man running at him? Like deer everywhere, it lowers its great rack in anticipation, and those tentacles flare in preparation to help grab. Presumably. Prehensile appendages aren't only for show.
*
While running towards the demondeer, Frank passes by a tree and stops momentarily. He reaches up to grab a branch to pull heavily down on it and snap it free. Good, now he has a stick. With his stick in hand he resumes his approach towards the creatures, doing so at a more steady pace now rather than a full charge.
Castle's eyes are focused in on the creatures, a little smirk creeping up on his lips. "Wrong damn day to come climbing out shitbags. Wrong damn day." Stick fight versus demon creatures. Vegas would really have a field day.
*
ROLL: Punisher +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 69
*
The stag is strong, as is its corporeal mundane kind, and the great muscles under its slick hide harden. Head lowered, it remains braced for the collision. Hooves bite deep into the scored grass of the park, and when the man slows to tear a branch free, it doesn't even register as a reason to blink. Probably because the tentacled-beast demon has no eyelids. The other one chuffs and dances, throwing its head high, breathing out a foul cloud of sulphurous air from its acid rimmed nostrils. It then chooses to wheel off, springing into the undergrowth far off the path, as if deciding it might as well go eat the lap dog. Its partner charges Castle, then, even as he's loping rather than outright running. Not so with the middle manager, come to plow him down.
Scarlett's clothing may be shredded somewhat, but she isn't giving up on preventing that one stag from reaching the others. The jogger is a lost cause, and the fallen fellow some distance away abandoned by his girlfriend. Forsaking her habitual reticence, she bludgeons the scrambling creature with a closed fist. It kicks. They remain entangled and every time the stag rises, she tries to pull it back down again. And it will be chance, and only chance, that its forelimb connects with her leg. Only a second or two in a strike, only that, but it's all that matters. Her black curse awakens from the void and roars out to entangle the demon's life-force.
And that is not a good thing.
*
The Punisher waits for the stag to charge at him in the loping gait. He slides to the side at the last possible moment and shoves the branch end broken from the tree towards the creature as hard as he can muster, intending to impale the Demon just under the front limb to strike where the heart type structure would be in a normal deer. Even as he finishes that movement he starts trying to break the stick into a shiv and get to work stabbing wildly. There is no grace, or form really. This is a straight brutal, violent encounter. After the fifteenth or so attempted stab at the demon stag, Frank howls out from the burning of the black blood and the rage he feels, driving the stick forward once again with even more force.
*
The Punisher facing down a horrifying tentacled stag is not, likely, something his enemies need to see. It would just prove he is insane. He jabs the stick and earns himself the grip of those tentacles, sucking and leeching at his arms when the beast throws its weight and horns at him. The nasty thing about those horns is the flotsam within: the psychic waste from lost lives, ragged souls. He might see faces, might feel pain and echoes of memories that aren't his. His rage feeds the creature and the holes punched into its body are almost incandescent, spilling out the ichor and demon-stuff onto the ground. Formidable foes, both of them, but eventually one has to give and the other flee or fail. Fall, rage, take whatever outcome it will: Frank Castle is likely to discover a puff of sulphurous cloud enveloping him, choking the oxygen from his lunges, and the ground under him scorched of any living plant material. His stick evaporates in the corrosive plunge, and then he is falling to the ground, conscious, but wreathed in that awful stench with burns - - not severe - - marking his encounter. It looks like he got attacked by a tiny kraken.