A fist.

Calmly placing itself and the attached elbow onto the front luxurious desk, it nimbly unfolded into an outstretched palm for the attached man to lean over with dire determination.

".. Omi Barsait of the last round's participants, I would request a farewell sundae of three feet in height, layered upon a silver tray with pristine vanilla ice cream, caramel and cherries spread leisurely about but never on the same layer, two strawberries embedded in the side, crumbled chocolate dust scattered across the outer-most layer, shredded chocola-no, rather, make it a massive sundae with pie crust! Yes, pie crust, and make the pie crust also consist almost entirely of your finest chocolate, so that just when I have cleared through the wall of ice cream and think to myself "Well my my, what a shame all the flavor is over, now for that dull crust-" there, I am yet again met with even more chocolate. I want to vomit after eating this, furiously, and to feel ill for days, perhaps even a week."

The most unusual rant he had given this entire tournament, it seemed the previously brooding warrior who had been absolutely fuming at himself over his third year without the metaphorical belt, was now trying to cheer himself up with a little outlandish behavior and a celebratory feast of death. Lavish, ridiculous.. but also something to send him off with before he began setting his sights on larger horizons the last days of the tourney prior to the final bout.

Pauldrons and all locked into place, the dark-clad fighter continued with gusto: "I assure you, I'll pay rather w-wait, a golden spoon. I would like a golden spoon. Not plated- golden."

..perhaps, cheering himself up a little too much.