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"Sixty-four fighters, plus reserves. Maybe half of them are part of, lead, or are associated with some organization of possibly good to openly evil intent. There's too many interests and tensions here to really be able to relax -there's just plots going on beyond the context of the tournament, and I don't trust any of it. I've already had a daughter kidnapped..."

This time, his shrug and pursing his lips off to the right side of his face just pretty much said everything he could possibly use words to explain. Or at least, he thought so. The easiest and most direct way to hurt him was to hurt those he cared for; the best way to manipulate him was through those same people, and he knew far too well that he was a metaphysically powerful and socially well-connected individual whose aid -willing or not - would be invaluable to some group of crackpot lunatics trying to rule the world. Or meta hunters trying to make him easier prey by preying on them.

"I'm just glad I'm not my guards."

As Iru left, Rhoslyn nodded at her, and then tilted his head sideways and looked at Deitric.

"You know, I heard you died. Didn't particularly believe it, and since you're here today and feel different than before, I have to conclude that something happened. If it's not too personal... well, what the s**t happened?"

She could sense it in his words. She could feel it in his heat. She could see it in his eyes. The fight had left this man, Omi Barsait, unsated, the adrenaline still hot in his veins--not only that, but it was quite clear the man was on her side, and displayed the qualities of obligation towards her. Perfect.

Faustina would sigh, and though it would seem a sigh of relief at Omi's well-being, she was undeniably further grateful that he, as she, also found advantages in their continued association through the evening. She wasn't the only of the two that would be benefiting, a fact which made her feel much less guilty about the whole ordeal. Granted, nor could she deny the honest concern for Omi, nor hide the blush from her cheeks at his sweet words and compliments.

The young woman bowed her head in thanks, her voice flowing from her lips as her gaze returned to find his. "Thank you, Mr. Barsait. I would be most grateful to have you at my side." Her eyes would linger within his a moment longer, captured by his charm, but when those strange and awkward feelings began to rise, the unexplained feelings that swelled unwarranted in such close male proximity, she would break the connection to cast her sights upon the surrounding hall. She was only distantly aware of how close her arms instinctively drew her towards Omi, rationalizing it with her desire for protection.

"I...must admit I've never been to a function as this before," she would continue, the slightest hesitation woven among her words, "and thus I'm not quite sure what one does at such grandiose events. It seems, thus far, to be primarily of fighting and dancing, and so, as I have grown weary of the former..."

At this, she would chance the return of those stunning, gleaming eyes to his, and she would ask with a shy smile set upon her thin lips, "...could you teach me the latter?"

"Touche. And Anya's physically recovered, and I can't say she's not growing into a fine example of everything the Unseelie stands for."

This was about as close to a bald-faced lie as he could possibly get. It was basically his way of saying "No, she gave up on all of her ideals and is evil to the point of practically scaring me," but the grin he had pretty much concealed the real meaning from showing through.

"Hopefully? Within the next two hours. I'm pretty sure that the longer this goes on, the more likely it is that someone's going to die, and from what I gathered, Midus enjoys paperwork and law-stuff about as little as I do. I highly doubt he'll keep us all waiting much longer."

Rhoslyn did sound extremely skeptical, though. It wasn't that he doubted the ability or talent Midus had - Rhoslyn was nowhere near as good as an administrator - but that it seemed remarkably like the ball had been going on for the past five days instead of about two to four hours, and his patience was wearing thin.

"Makes sense. At first, I had guessed that you'd gone home, or to some sacred temple and done something to, well... metaphysical difference."

He sort of vaguely waved at Deitric's "new" body, meaning the whole lack of chakras thing.

Jace had not been ignorant to his date's loveliness in the poorly lit cabin of the limousine, in fact he'd found the silhouettes of half-darkness to suit her well, but to his pleasant surprise she looked even more scintillating under the glow of lamplight. The ball's decor would have a hard time recapturing his attention, now, even grand and new to him as the splendor was.

His hand dropped daringly to Miana's waist, applying just a small bit of pressure to guide her through the propped open double doors, lest they linger any longer to gawk at the entryway like a pair of fish. What an impression that would have made.

Jace cocked a brow at hearing his consort's heavily accented speech melt away, his grin spreading. Full of surprises, she was. "Ah, cher," the Acadian chuckled in his own rhythmic lilt, more than the standard Southern drawl with its heavy French and Haitian influences. "You make it easy t'. If only I'd had de chance t' show you sooner, no?"

As they swept inside, the Cajun withdrew his hand from the curve of Miana's hip, gently encircling his digits around her arm instead. the touch had done its job, a momentary intimate brush, but let it last any longer and she might begin to feel he invaded her personal space. This way he could guide her safely around the fights, whistling low as they passed and murmuring a commentary to his date, "S'pose we should'a expected no less, considerin' de occasion."

Finding a clear spot on the floor near a few stray, waltzing couples, a pause fell over his steps. Fair eyes flickered to his consort in his engaging manner as roughened fingertips slipped down her arm and withdrew, lifting the hand nearly flat and palm-up instead. "Care t' dance? Or shall I find somet'in to quench yo' t'irst and liven t'ose pretty feet up, first?"

"Yeah, sounds like a wild party," Telamichious said absentmindedly, not sure at that point if Enrique had done the smart thing and wandered off to a more active participant in the ball. The stone man, however, was paying more attention to Omi Barsait's little spat with Jocasta Nu, Librarian of the Jedi Archives on Coru-- oh, right, Deitric Jocasta, winner of the Gaian Tenkaichi Budokai twice consecutively. It was less a spat and more "Omi Barsait getting choked like a b***h by Deitric Jocasta", but whatever.

Telamichious found it perplexing when, after being put down like the broken animal he was, Omi had the audacity to rise to his feet. If that perplexed the poor automaton, then he must have been positively ******** when the foolish Barsait, who had been spared a dishonorable death and premature elimination from the GTB and life in general by Deitric... actually told the superior fighter that he won by default? Well-versed in sexual debauchery after having been the victim of so many Gaiaaah monthly special vids, Telamichious had the perfect term in mind for this silly, silly creature:

c**k-mongler

Despite his delayed reaction, which could be accounted for as the result of his relatively short attention span outside of battle, he was sure it wasn't too late. He articulated this thought in the form of a world-shattering scream that carried throughout the ballroom. "c**k-mongler! Omi Barsait, the c**k-mongler!" He wasn't entirely sure how he remembered the dreaded c**k-mongler's name. He might have seen it in passing, perhaps, or spied it on one of the many rosters posted throughout the tournament grounds; maybe even heard it in the form of crawling whispers made by low voices. It didn't matter.

Once the initial confusion subsided, Telamichious found himself inexplicably angry. He was a man who adhered to a strict code of honor -- a bushido, a mantra that necessitated discipline and even, sometimes, stoicism and abstinence -- and this violated many of the sacred edicts therein. It was as such that Telamichious discarded his absurd purple hair, an object of Final Fantasy fanaticism on behalf of many disturbingly nerdy Gaians. A nearby starry-eyed teenage girl might have caught the wig, thinking it a bouquet of stringy violets rained down upon her.

"RAAAAAAAAAAAGH!" One might have expected Telamichious to spontaneously grow a head full of butt-length golden hair that defied the questionable gravity that Gaia projected. One might have expected him to shout a barbarous battle cry that shook the heavens and sundered the lofty angels from their cloudy citadels. One might have expected him to at least wipe his mouth on his shirt or a napkin or something to get rid of some of the surplus chicken grease -- but all of these ones and the occasional two would have been painfully incorrect in their assumptions... except for the battle cry part, because as you can see in the quotation marks I put about a paragraph ago that really happened.

In a random outburst of anger and weirdyface hulk-crushing, Telamichious grabbed his tourist garb and ripped it to ribbons. By this time, Spencer was a twitching mess on the floor, occasionally defecating in his undergarments and sobbing to himself while he waited for the inevitable heart attack to come. That would have been a blessing for our dear Spencer, but it would never come. Anyway.

Telamichious grabbed the table next to him, oblivious to the protests of other guests and even to the occasional naked infant that was crawling on the tablecloth, and hurled it through the air. Bitches weren't gonna crash no party of that stone man's. "I challenge you to a duel!" he yelled from behind the food-receptacle-turned-speeding-projectile. His immense strength allowed him to flex granite biceps for onlooking pretty ladies. "If you can't have your precious debacle with Jocasta, you can have it with me." He winked one milky eye, looking like some sort of ******** up crossover between Doctor Manhattan, a Decepticon of some sort, the Jolly Green Giant and the Tin Man and also the Hulk.

"Now let's get groovy," Telamichious murmured. By then, the descending table, cutlery and all, would probably have landed and either crushed Omi or have been deflected.

1/10, put yo game face on!