[closed]

[unorthodoxies]

Who: reddenedrage & unorthodoxies
When: Shortly after this.
Where: The rooftop of the Outlander Community Block, to start!
Format: Prose.
What: Some good old fashioned ass kickin'.
Warnings: Violence and language that will surely be accompanied by vast amounts of immaturity.

Comments

[reddenedrage]

There wasn't much for Michael to do before heading outside in a huff. His sword was picked up and strapped to his back--the jacket and goggles were left behind, the elemental wearing just the fishnet top, shorts, and high boots. He took two steps outside before annoyance rehit him; his wings burst out of his back to speed up the process, and a few strong wingbeats had him hovering over the building. For a second, he thought the bitch didn't show. But then that thing was easily seen in stark clarity in all of its disgusting nature.

...Ugh. Who would flounce around like that?

He dove down at the roof, landing hard against the building, wings billowing out. Folding his arms against his chest, he raised his chin, narrowing his eyes at the bitch. "Surprised you showed. Guess you weren't all talk, at least."

[unorthodoxies]

Benten would flounce as much as he damn well pleased.

And with his legendary (notorious?) impatience getting the best of him, it was a small wonder that he hadn't yet managed to drill a hole straight through the rooftop with that single, stiletto heel. What, he'd been waiting for... five minutes, at least! Tch. Punctuality was a foreign thing in Anatole, it seemed. Just like anyone with a decent set of manners.

"You're the one who's surprised?" A snort. Benten didn't bother to meet the kid's gaze, and for the moment, was terribly engrossed in examining the shockingly blue lacquer that coated his fingernails. But, he was still acutely aware of those eyes that were narrowed to gleaming slits, and just maybe, he enjoyed the weight of that gaze. "I always keep my word, little boy

[reddenedrage]

The little grated. More than even he wanted to admit. He was prompted to snarl out a reply when a familiar sound touched his ears. Michael's eyes only widened at the sight. No way... There was no possible way-- Six wings?! The other's next retort was nearly unheard in the aftermath of shock. How did-- Was this bitch another experiment in the end? Why hadn't he heard of it?!

"What the fuck are you?!" The possibility of fighting against someone powered by six wings throbbed through him once and vanished. It wasn't fear that crept there, but something close to exhilaration. Nah, she wasn't reading angel, not really. But she definitely wasn't human. Demon... Maybe. Fuck. There was nothing normal about this bitch. His hand moved up to the hilt of his sword, swinging it over his shoulder in a smooth motion. "You think those are gonna help you? I've been bored for awhile. You're gonna help me with that

/years later ;;

[unorthodoxies]

A sword, huh? How positively stone-age. How ridiculously archaic. And how seriously fitting for a brat who possessed a vocabulary that was grandiosely limited to bitch, bitch, bitch, whore. So the kid was one of "those" types. Kiyoami's type. Whose primary brain patterns revolved around charging headlong into fights, bloodying something up, and sleeping with-

Oh, wait.

Midget teenage boys with no balls to speak of didn't get any. Ever. Benten snorted, eyeing the kid up, studying the ease with which he wielded that (outdated) hunk of metal. Really, though, he wasn't honing in on the twerp's weapon of choice, so much as discerning what wasn't so ostentatiously put on display. Wings, sword, and the scent of agni and ash. Yeah. That's what it was, without a goddamn doubt - flames, to complement that carrot top mop of hair.

Maybe, this had the potential to get interesting.

"Who the fuck am I?" With cold hauteur, he laughed, raising a hand to his mouth in a subtle mockery of playing coy. "I'm the Angel of the Four Generals