10-30-2015, 03:16 PM
If not for the toxic fumes, provided by the sweltering substance of mysteries, Wakka may have taken to the pool below like a fish—they smelled liked rotten seafood, fucked and stuffed with expired eggs, wrapped in diapers. Instead, he hopped from steel platform to steel platform, evading the white-haired man in pursuit of him.
The man who chased him wore a crimson trench coat, and (as of now) wielded a broadsword, which appeared much too large for a person of his slender stature. He swiped it through the blitzballer’s platform, but failed to draw blood; Wakka backflipped, and receded to a rhombus-shaped platform.
This man was deadly serious. He emerged from one of the shelter’s halves, and glared towards the blitzballer. “Wanna try that again?” he said, throwing his sword over his shoulder.
Wakka smirked. “Why not, ya?”
By now, if Wakka still harbored hope of a Blitzball match then he was a fool. A damned fool.
In any other circumstance, he would have forfeited (bloodlust was not a hobby of his), these circumstances were different; he needed information. Baron Victor von Magnus—a burly man, aged like fine wine—appeared to be a man worth meeting, if Wakka could survive the tournament. Step Two of that process began now.
He rolled his blitzball down from the cradle of his arm, palming it in his right hand as he shot his eyes towards to his adversary’s hand. It worked last fight. He overhand pitched his ball, intending to jar free the sword from Dante’s (if Wakka heard the pre-fight announcement correctly) grasp.
It failed miserably. Dante took his sword and smacked the Blitzball away like a pestering fly. It darted back towards Wakka, and hit him right in the chest, sending his ass into the steel under him with a clang and thud. The bliztball sunk his head between his legs, and gasped for air.
“I told you no more fooling around,” the white-haired swordsman reiterated, bringing his blade back over his shoulder.
He jumped to a neighboring platform, and then to the edge of the rhombus-shaped on Wakka sat on, pulling his sword above his head after he landed.
Wakka felt the killing blow hovering over his body, sweeping down to split him in two. But this was not the end. Not this early. He grappled his hands around the back of Dante’s feet and yanked back as if they were the last two mugs of ale on a counter. The white-haired man groaned as his legs were taken out from under him, and he fell backwards, plummeting towards the cesspool below. And he would have, if not for his quick wits to reach his free hand out to catch the ledge of the platform.
The man who chased him wore a crimson trench coat, and (as of now) wielded a broadsword, which appeared much too large for a person of his slender stature. He swiped it through the blitzballer’s platform, but failed to draw blood; Wakka backflipped, and receded to a rhombus-shaped platform.
This man was deadly serious. He emerged from one of the shelter’s halves, and glared towards the blitzballer. “Wanna try that again?” he said, throwing his sword over his shoulder.
Wakka smirked. “Why not, ya?”
By now, if Wakka still harbored hope of a Blitzball match then he was a fool. A damned fool.
In any other circumstance, he would have forfeited (bloodlust was not a hobby of his), these circumstances were different; he needed information. Baron Victor von Magnus—a burly man, aged like fine wine—appeared to be a man worth meeting, if Wakka could survive the tournament. Step Two of that process began now.
He rolled his blitzball down from the cradle of his arm, palming it in his right hand as he shot his eyes towards to his adversary’s hand. It worked last fight. He overhand pitched his ball, intending to jar free the sword from Dante’s (if Wakka heard the pre-fight announcement correctly) grasp.
It failed miserably. Dante took his sword and smacked the Blitzball away like a pestering fly. It darted back towards Wakka, and hit him right in the chest, sending his ass into the steel under him with a clang and thud. The bliztball sunk his head between his legs, and gasped for air.
“I told you no more fooling around,” the white-haired swordsman reiterated, bringing his blade back over his shoulder.
He jumped to a neighboring platform, and then to the edge of the rhombus-shaped on Wakka sat on, pulling his sword above his head after he landed.
Wakka felt the killing blow hovering over his body, sweeping down to split him in two. But this was not the end. Not this early. He grappled his hands around the back of Dante’s feet and yanked back as if they were the last two mugs of ale on a counter. The white-haired man groaned as his legs were taken out from under him, and he fell backwards, plummeting towards the cesspool below. And he would have, if not for his quick wits to reach his free hand out to catch the ledge of the platform.