Welcome to Gaia! ::

Description: The lobby of the hotel.

Special Rules: Anyone can join what's about to be a hectic fight. No holds barred, save for harming non-fighters, aka visitors. They'll be asked to vacate the premises when the fight goes once things get too over the top. The fight won't start until Omi initiates the fight.

Field Measurements: A large hotel with 16 floors.

Ten Count Boundary: There is none. Just run if you can't take anymore pressure.

Reyin Nova had been eliminated from contention for quite some time. He wasn't really bitter about it at all, chalking up his losses to his own lack of effort and commitment instead of attributing it to his opponents' dirty tactics. When he had left the tournament grounds, it had supposedly been for good. There wasn't much time in a wannabe hero's life to be spent waiting around in a hotel room. There was good to be done, dammit.

But Reyin realized all too late that he had left the majority of his belongings in his hotel room. Including his wallet, his bathroom kit, and most importantly, his sword.

So Reyin came strolling right into the lobby, hands jammed inside his pockets, whistling a merry little tune and giving casual waves to people who remembered his face.

Watching the woman flail her head about like a rag-doll hyped up on caffeine, Barsait's normally patient nature with patrons had ran rather thin. "The sundae, mind?" Proposing the "question" in order to jar her senses back into that of the duty ahead, he was rather eager to receive his order and skip on out of his spot. He did not wish to group all those minds together, but how couldn't he with those damned greedy eyes boring into him like animals waiting for a piece of meat to drop? It was enough to make him lose his appetite, were it not for the fact he could eat a sundae even if he was suffering full blown food poisoning.

However, the "Artist" seemed mildly distraught at the sight of the woman seemingly recognizing something and stilling her fidgeting a hair. So unusual! What..

"..!" A hand.

Normally, the sentiment would have been well appreciated. It was after all, what Omi himself thought. There was always the next time, with even more a chance to blast through the ranks. Yet.. something about being touched like that and explained it all like he himself hadn't learned it first hand, felt patronizing. Like this Sonners was trying to instruct a child how to react properly, and that..

".. I don't need to have tomorrow illuminated, Mr. Sonners. I've already made it readily visible. I've consistently made it rather far into this little tourney of yours, more so than any other I feel even if I haven't touched the peak yet." Words beginning to stream out of him with wide-open eyes and a more taunt posturing, Omi Barsait turned from the hand casually- then about face again, glaring into those eyes of Midus with tenacity few would dare show at this stage.

"That "Heaven or Hell" I've heard so oft whispered about amongst the lechers around here, I'm going to exceed in. When this tourney here comes around again, I'll exceed there. Nothing has ever been or ever will be out of my reach, Sonners. So I've faltered. Small shortcomings to my destined place." A step closer. This was more than some mere hot-blooded rage; it was a drive that couldn't be halted even if Barsait somehow did wish for it.

".. The Gaian Tenkaichi Budoukai IV is already mine. It, "Hell and Heaven," all such similar matters are going to be mere foot-notes to me." Shoulders popping into place audibly, the infamous [Serpentine Manipulation Artist] added: "Experience, Mr. Sonners? I gather experience every single instant I live; I right now am far greater than the man I was just yesterday, doubt me and without mercy, regardless of your title or person, it will be the very last thing you'll ever do."

Such heated words faded into a casual, toothy grin - hands folded at his sides. No doubt, die-hard fans of this tourney would take this as heresy, and that wasn't including probable guards abound given Midus Sonners' reputation and likely, transgressors in the past likely wanting to off him for fame or fortune or perhaps idle lunacy. This wasn't just being arrogant in the face of an opponent like many had been; it was easy to taunt someone you were in the role of smashing into stone. Anyone could show they're good and brazen in the ring, but to the head..

Considerably less so.

"..Correction, you learn far more from losing. All you learn from victory is that you are superior." Leaning back against the very desk he had been leaning over earlier, was the wild-haired man's articulate glare. Fine and detailed, it bore into Midus like a surgeon's laser. "To that end, as depressing as it may all prove to be, I grow progressively less and less disappointed with it all as the years go on. Of course I desire victory more than you could likely comprehend-" A single 'tut.'

"..and yet.. perhaps had I by luck, skill, or both obtained victory already - I'd be in a higher place of power right now. Prematurely, before like you claimed, I had this theoretical benchmark! Wouldn't that be a damned shame, now?" Voice droning on out comically, the "punch-line" was hanging in the air like a rising poison with dire effects waiting to be executed in the minds of those abound.

A slight inhale, and it came: "Perhaps, had that happened, I would be quite like you, Mr. Midus Sonners. Wealthy.. successful.. a wide influence. A man of extraordinary reputation.." Rolling his head back, the amber brown pupils never left their target.

"..And a power-hungry simpleton who pretends to know what a fighter's merit is when they themselves haven't thrown their fist in many a fortnight, showing contempt and gluttony to everyone I come into contact with like a drunken lecher thinking themselves a sage. Showering my onlookers with ignorance and flashy, substance-less rhetoric, I would then eventually come upon a man attempting to order a sizable sum of ice cream and proceed to tutor him, like a complete and utter maddened fool - complete with a smug air like I were his better in every comprehensible way, when in truth, I would be nothing more than a clown swimming in undeserved wealth that blood-thirsty peons would shower upon me every chance they got! Now now, that would be quite the shameful deed, were I someone of that nature; perhaps then, I should count myself blessed by the divine. Such an existence would be, beyond words, distasteful!"

A wide, patronizing smile.

Competitions of the past had found one [Omi Barsait] to at times, lose his temper. His berserk sprees were too infamous to be denied; yet.. more often still was he a man who kept that insurmountable anger in check, or perhaps better still, channeled it in more fitting ways. Consistently, he has taken would-be "strategists" and thrown them into discord, utterly dominated those thinking their berserk nature is on par with his own..

He was not simply some mad man foaming at the mouth for blood. That status, he reserved for the crowd Midus seemed to surround himself with.

Capping it all out with repetition of the same line, no less emulating Sonners' tone yet wringing out dry any overly sarcastic tone to really lay on the insult, he added: "Does that make sense? Now, pardon the gender specific irritation, but.." Turning his gaze away from Midus despite their close proximity for an ultimate nonverbal act of disrespect, the Manipulation Artist called over his shoulder: "Oi' woman, the sundae? I'm paying enough for the damned thing to put a small child through schooling, and I haven't eaten in over a day. It would really hit the spot?

A thunderous bang echoed out in the hallway, right upstairs of the main lobby; the sound was of a heavy metal boot thudding against one of the thin hotel doors, and then a second later of it flying into the hallway and smashing the opposite wall. The dragon had awoken, finally, and decided his loss to Deitric Jocasta twice was someone else's fault. Why was it that Vince had won three matches in a row, only to be placed against the same opponent again? The dragon spit angrily from his extended jaw, and stepped heavily over the broken down door.

His heavy tail thudded against the wood angrily as he put his claws out and shredded the wall of the hotel, walking down the hallway towards the stairs. Of course, Vince had heard the argument downstairs with Omi Barsait and Midus Sonners before he'd kicked down the door, however, the sound brought a grin to his face as he slowly descended the stairs, ripping the sword from his back. Of course, his clawed fingers ripped into the wired hilt, causing rips and shreds in the finely made grip, but it didn't matter; he'd been waiting to shed some true blood, and so far, this was the only true blood he'd had a chance at.

"Ahahahaha. What is this? Midus is finally getting what he deserves? Sounds... delicious." With that, Vince descended the final step and walked into the lobby, his serpentine eyes locked on Midus.

It was true. Thanks to those like Midus, Omi was able to attain the outlet he needed without guilt - bashing skulls in and getting his own smashed about. Many could even claim that, in a sense, those like Midus created the [Serpentine Manipulation Artist]. After all, his personality changed radically through the rigors of sustained "friendly" combat. Living nearly for free during his stay as a fighter, making killings off frequently placing high up every single one he strolls into. After all, he was still by many definitions young at 19 years, yet was labeled a veteran in many venues searched.

Gold, fame, experience, bodily growth, constant mental stimulation, contacts, weaponry, equipment.. and with the [Gaian Tenkaichi Budoukai] being his most frequented tourney, it was no stretch of the imagination to claim that Sonners himself was the one most responsible for such aspects. Barsait wasn't the type to deny the evident 'lest good reason was given.

Yet the question seemed to drill into the core of his very brain, like a catalyst for some great cataclysm. Eyes dimming nearly shut, Omi could only reply slowly and in near-tranquility: "My one true despise..? Why, you have this so mistaken. I was merely ordering a sundae, Mr. Sonners. To claim I have an object of hatred is.."

All like a feverish dream did Omi himself appear before his eyes, albeit several years younger. Panting with his ribs heaving to the point he might have been a corpse, hands digging into a tree un-moved by his plight 'til the skin tore and blood softly oozed outwards. Then all at once, a magnificent series of crimson lights blasting out of what seemed to be damned near his every pore, fire emanating from the youth like hell being uncapped - second and third degree burns scouring him straight to the dirt below that simmered so definitively.

.. his narrowed eyes widened to their highest degree, Omi's face growing quite livid, an audible but incoherent sound escaping his lips of immense frustration.

"..!!"

To much of the crowd's dismay or interest, Barsait suddenly stepped in with the entire upper-body lurching forth to make there be near no distance between white cloth and black. That nose of his was nearly touching Midus' own, teeth barred like a beast about ready to tear into flesh - and then in the most booming, energized and vicious voice to ever leave those lips seen yet, did the man speak.

"I am a man seeking PERFECTION of self, who sees how limited I am more than your callous mind could ever comprehend. Every word let loose from my lips is flawed, every motion I make is less than ideal, and every single breath I take without clawing myself forward is one I shan't deserve." Breaking out into a near roar, the pale man seemed to gain hues of red all abound through his immense fury: "TO THAT END "Mentor," I will best warriors in combat, I will smote kings until they weep at my feet, I will crush entire CORRUPT KINGDOMS into rubble below my soles, I will drag gods from their conceited thrones and smear their visages upon the gravel below 'til they lay broken and bleeding, made less than a common beggar by nothing more and nothing less than MY OWN HANDS-"

Pupils boring into the enigmatic Midus Sonners own, Omi added in a suddenly low pitch whilst his dark gauntlets groaned with the tension placed upon them: ".. steps, Mr. Sonners. Consider yourself the grand orchestrator right now, but know you're nothing more than a step I'm going to crash above. You and your lustful peons that lick your ill-begotten heels, show them the image of a just and fair emperor whilst you profit from others' sweat and blood. Please, it suits you."

".. but don't give this sing-song act of benevolence when my eyes see right through you like a blade through paper, Mr. Sonners. I cannot stand being patronized, even if your crooked grin and generous pocket manages to keep these dogs begging for their treats - don't dare count myself in that envelope." A swift breath, then the hottest exhale - like flames were literally venting their noxious fumes out of him.

".. a man who can only speak yet never act, who claims to be generous yet sits idly by in his wealth like a gluttonous swine while obvious plights abound surround him - smiling while even now, chorus of screams aren't far away at all.. doesn't deserve to be seen, Mr. Sonners. They deserve to crawl in the hole whence they came."

Shoulders taunt and pauldrons resolute, he added one final phrase in resolution, showering the entire lobby with the intent's heat: "Recreants should be turned to ash-" His left hand thrusted horizontally at its full length, palm splitting the air in fury before reaching its extents and holding there like a claw.

"

AND BURIED!!"

The dead silence already foretold the mood. In a place full of crowds which should not be quiet...
Even in a place where, supposedly, no fight should take place, the setting for a possible bloodfest showed itself in all its wonderful display of colors.
The atmosphere complimented that mood, actually, with the crowd making up the supposed ring of where a potential - if not catastrophic fight - would take place.

For the swordsman, who was in the midst of leaving after the end of the GTB tournament after being defeated by Tenkai and Omi...
He was walking passively down the stairs, his body fully adorned with his gears and weapons while the Halberd was slung over his shoulder - the head axe being wrapped with cloth to make it safe for traveling. Of course, hearing the sudden roar of a familiar voice echo from the main lobby as he appeared for departure, the swordsman, against his better judgment...
Decided to check it out, as it was just along the way.

What he saw, however, was the former foe that beat him, Omi, preparing to duke it out with supposedly, one of the main supporters of this tournament.

".......???"

The silence made understanding the issue even more difficult than it already is. Was there something that is causing a spite to occur between the two? Or...
Was it really necessary for the swordsman to even bother himself with this type of bullshit? He had areas to travel, and some people to meet again. With his defeat that revealed all the flaws and more within him, wasting his time here when he should look for some trainer or sparring partner to rebuild his skills is certainly something that he should be doing.

And not...being curious as how this might turn out...

"...."

Ah.
What the hell.
He'll stay just to see if his possible prediction comes true or not.