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Robyn was just as startled as Rylen when the gunshots sounded, her ears attempting to smother themselves in her hair over the loud noise. She looked around, trying to see where the sound had come from, but no one else seemed alarmed. Most likely, they weren't surprised even if they did hear it.

Still looking warily around, it was then that she noticed his hand on her arm. She caught his gaze just as he jerked it away, obviously embarrased. Her head tilted to the side as her tail swished behind her, her green eyes watching him curiously. Now, to say she wasn't interested would be a gross understatement. In fact, under most circumstances, she would have already turned on the charm ages ago. But it was precisely because it was Rylen that she hadn't. She respected him too much to toy with him that way. And toying is what it would be. She and Rylen were too alike to work in a relationship, and she wasn't sure they could keep their friendship intact through that.

So when he went back to their conversation like nothing had happened, she simply smiled, returning his hard yet friendly gaze. "And back at ya, Ry." She winked and brought her hand up in a fist, like a "yeah!" gesture. "Let's make sure they never forget us, yeah?"

I hope James - the other James - is doing well.

Sighing, the vampire turned his attention to the gathering at large. The fact that the Devil had escaped unscathed was still agitating the vampire, if only because victory in that engagement was almost totally ensured. With the tournament brackets yet to be released the chances of catching the coward became a thing of luck - or fate.

He smiled, his predatory visage both disarming and alarming.

"We'll be in this beautiful night together until the end." He told himself softly, appreciating the scope of the evening's beauty. In his mind's eye he saw rivers of blood running in every direction, staining every surface in sight. He saw his vision full of torn flesh, felt limbs giving way in his mouth - tasted marrow exploding free of bone.

Not only Roen and his damned cohorts. Not only every last person who drank Grapple. Not only the hosts of the tournament or the attendees of the ball.

Everyone.
Everything.
Everywhere.

"I'll drink to that." The vampire vowed, stepping down into the sea of living bodies in search of a morsel. He would not allow the night to be a complete waste on account of a single missed opportunity. No, there was too much good to be had from what remained of the evening.

"Hn..?"

Adjusting the angle of his position towards the sound of his name did Barsait witness an old, familiar sight. Yes, the incident last year was a spectacle interrupted before its prime, which threw the event into chaos and anarchy for nary a short time - this, Omi recalled distinctly. After all, many questioned why you would bite the hand that fed you, so the surprise of such disruptions was profound.

"Sonners.." The [artist] mused, posture already relaxing in some ways yet tensing in others, left eye shut whilst the right glared ahead harshly with an unmitigated fury. The smugness, the blatant incarnation of filthy money he could not stand - in humanoid form before him. Were Midus not worthy of his fortune as Omi proclaimed a year prior, so true was it of this year ten fold. However, to the surprise of the crowd, a bizarre smile overtook that wild face of his, spread wide.

"Why Mr. Sonners, it is good to see you as well. I am afraid so long as life remains within me and this tournament remains running, every year I shall be present completely regardless of others' expectations. Still, you have nothing to fear. These days should be prosperous, joyful, and downright Eden for you! Why hold such a worrisome attitude in the peak of your life, these grand days? After all.." Each word, his feet carried him towards the extravagantly garbed tournament owner's left side. A kind expression on his face the entire way, until the road took him to Sonners' immediate proximity, out of earshot of the crowd. Then, his voice poured into Midus like a thick, concentrated venom..

"You shouldn't be so comfortable with your status, you know.. it is a temporary thing. I recommend enjoying your power as long as precious time will allow it, Midus, these days of prosperity! They shall be your last."

[WFFT]

A sudden impromptu right hook, stopping but an inch from Sonners' neck as Barsait's body rotated into it full-force. Nothing that could make fellows of their ilk flinch lest it struck.. still, it was a surprisingly sharp strike, even for the infamous [artist]. Mid-chest level curving upward, even without his gauntlets did the strike carry a magnificent 'snap'. Though their height held a significant difference with Omi being 5'11'', Less a physical blow, however, and more of a mental one as those Sonners commanded attention of were now gasping and eying what just transpired. The illusion of a powerful, nay invulnerable man was crumbling before their eyes.

Casually rotating his body clockwise 'til in normalcy, Barsait's fingers slipped into his pockets - and nary giving Sonners time to react in full.. the tuxedo-wearing fighter casually strolled to the right, walking sideways before rotating 'til his back was shown to the "man of the evening." To top it, both hands now casually sank into his fine pants' pockets, the fighter gave out a hearty yawn while eying the food court.

It was.. a sign of utmost disrespect few prior had dreamed of performing. Furthermore, Omi was fairly confident Sonners' bluff would fall on deaf ears. Too much of the crowd demanded that Barsait fought these days, his name was too well known - and spectacles like this simply reinforced that. To top it, simply telling him to 'stop' would initiate a conflict of grander scale than ever before, it was a fruitless scenario.

Whether Midus enjoyed it or not, Omi already knew the tournament & he were tied together by a strong bond. Shattering it was nothing so simple. The issue was, in allowing that serpent to continue sliding his way through the tournament's history, was it wise to leave Barsait's ambition unchecked? Or was it even an option, anymore..?

Final words spoke over his shoulders amidst the stunned silence, no longer hiding his hostility yet holding a mocking sing-song tone to the voice all the same: "My next fight takes precedence over a clown, Sonners. But you'll receive your time sooner than you may think.. prepare to watch an empire crumble first-hand!"

The ballroom was filled with voices expressing every human emotion imaginable, as Year IV fighter [Omi Barsait] casually grasped an apple off the table counter, red and polished to a shine. Was he the underdog in this situation any longer?

Or was he a man waging a war?

Robyn's words put Rylen at ease because it seemed to confirm she had the right kind of mindset for this tournament. Rylen could usually sense a person's true conviction if they tried to put on a tough act. Not the he had some kind of supernatural knack for it, but rather he could read the most subtle cues of body language pretty well. He nodded a couple of times in response, as if chewing on her words.

Make sure they never forget us?

"Yeah," He said, looking around the room at the assortment of rough and nasty types. "My opponent won't forget about me any time soon. I'll make sure of it."

He heard a booming voice crack through the ballroom like thunder, and he quirked an eyebrow as he idly listened to Midus's speech to a man who had spoken up earlier to the rowdy crowd. Looked like there was some kind of history there, but Rylen could care less about that. He felt a crease of irritation form in his brow, and he felt rather annoyed that Midus had given him the false hope of announcing the brackets. Keeping his eyes locked on the giant of a man, Rylen muttered something to Robyn in a volume only she could hear--again accounting for their sensitive hearing.

"Why doesn't he announce the damn brackets already?" Robyn would be able to instantly recognize his vexed mood, which was really more of the average baseline for the half-wolf whenever he was not in the company of someone he actually liked. Which, again, happened to be only two people at the ball.

"Huh?"

An undignified response, one that shouldn't have come from someone wearing such finery. Then again, what was he if not a corpse in funeral wear? Even the lowliest of men could be made presentable on their deathbed, and the same could be said of the monster at the ball.

Turning, he leveled his gaze on Catlyn. The characteristic glow of his irises was subdued by the artificial light of the hotel, revealing them only to be the sort of red one would expect from a vampire. Managing his confusion was a simple task, though he made no effort to hide his curiosity. The woman that called him out was completely different from the people around her.

"Something I can do for you?" He asked, lifting his gloved left hand towards her. The action carried the front of his cape up towards her, allowing it to brush past his arm and reveal his empty hand only at the last moment. To those around them it would seem an act of assurance that he did not intend to harm her - an invitation to join him even - when in reality he was testing her resolve. Had he taken hold of his cape as he lifted his hand...

Her lips split into a grin as the man turned to face her. Their eyes would meet the instant he turned, and she would hold his gaze unflinchingly, even as he turned his hand out towards her. She didn't know what he was, or as of yet what he was capable of, but she got at least one answer she was looking for; he definitely wasn't human.

With that in mind, she brought her left hand to its respective hip and cocked her lower body to the right. The movement shifted her weight to her right leg, and exaggerated her natural curve a bit.

Her question was defiant and filled with a bit of astonishment, "Do I really looke like I want to dance? I mean, come on. Seriously?"

She would accentuate her queries with a rapid reach of her empty left hand, and slap her palm into his. With surprising strength for a human woman, she would attempt to squeeze his... cold... hand...

Her confident grin would falter only in the slightest as she would step forward so that she might speak again, her face merely inches away from his. The embrace of cold had consumed her form, and she shuddered slightly.

"You interest me. I want to talk to you."

The badlander's eyes shot open. It was disgusting, unexpected, and chilling. The stench that had gone unnoticed prior was revolting. In the instant that KB's lips met hers, she had been completely unprepared for his assault.

She could feel his strength as he held her. She was trapped. And she could feel... something, she wasn't sure what, but it had to be something he was doing. It almost felt as though he were trying to suck out her innards.

The b*****d.

She didn't know if he would see it coming or not, but since he had been holding her left hand with his and proceeded to wrap his other arm around her lower back...

WHAM!

The sledgehammer in her right hand would meet with the exposed left side of his skull. She was looking for strength. She found it. The hammer's shaft had slipped down through her loosened grip, and she was clutching the weapon just below the heavy, steel head.

Let's see just how thick his skull is, she thought with disgust.

And so, as the night went on, filled with propositions of grabass (or direct grabass), some fellers going grodpacked nuts over some blown-up city, and then some other chumps acting tuff about how they were gonna rath up anyone else to interrupt the event (despite them causing another interruption themselves), few would bother to remember the brief but violent outburst of a giant man that had stormed into the ball early on.

That's because one of them pesky time warp clouds hung over the incident, freezing it in time. Yep, those suck.

However, just as things were starting to wind down overall...



Grod was gonna get good once again.

Mr. Ebris Dhifi narrowed his old eyes at the sight of the supposedly-drunken man expertly huckin' his way out of the trajectory of poor Jimmy Beans. The bounty hunter reckoned the Jimbo musta been one of them drunk Kung Foo sumbitches, who could do all sorts of woowoo while downing their piss. The prospect of tearing into one of them woowoo faggerts was pretty tantalizing for the big man, whose already-nasty breath was twinged with the cloying scent of vanilla extract and antifreeze.

So, instead of stampin' his feet and hollering because his throw dun missed, Ebris simply flashed a mean thing of a grin at the Jimbo and began to thud on over. Both arms neutral at his side, it looked as though the sumbitch was just gonna keep walkin and walkin till Joseph found himself trampled underfoot by something more than double his mass.

Of course, that Jimbo wasn't the only Jimbo hankering for a blunt force trauma-induced lobotomy.



Ebris paused, just for a moment - like he was about to scratch a pimple off his a** or some inconsequential grod that always seemed to interrupt stuff. Synthweave creaked as he reared his shoulder and neck back, taking a long glance at the walking carpet behind him. The twinkle that was held in his eye was probably not about him being excited to play fetch with it. For it to have also assumed Ebris was unarmed, especially when he had busted into the gig in almost full combat gear, was prolly not that good of an idea, either.

"Go suck down some Beggin' Strips, FrooFroo - I'll be there ta administer the neuterin' in just a tad bit."

And with that quip and promise stated, Ebris was once again off to walkin' hard, once again right over Joseph if he didn't do a rathin' thing about it.



0/14 Days Ruined