Description: Two former colleagues are reunited in the most unlikely of arenas: a ballroom floor. Elegance and grace meet pain and punishment as two fighters collide for the first time in four years. (Winner: Elisabeth)
Ah, the finery of Hong Kong. The way the upper-class live out their lives... Though he can certainly live without, such things make him long for the grandoise parties of Paris, the frivolous waste on material wants and desires, plus a more cultured breed of people, so unlike those he associates with in Southtown... Looking rather smashing in a black tuxedo, complete with a red cummerbund and a neatly styled white cravat around his neck, it's dress code to be wearing a bow tie... But bow ties just don't damn well suit the likes of Ash Crimson. Swishing around a deep wine in its champagne flute glass, he wanders here and there past the guests towards the center, soon decorating one of the chairs as he stretches out luxuriously.
Just as the glass is tipped to his pale lips, suddenly there's an interruption, and it would seem that one of the servers prefers he didn't occupy this area. Cantonese, the other half of Chinese he really doesn't know, is confusing at first, but after listening, Ash eventually gets the point on his own. He glances to the cleared floor, then back to the fretting young man, smiling a saccharine sweet smile, all serenity-soaked and everything. His words, however, betray the expression entirely: It's street thug Mandarin, and the guy looks pretty shocked at how someone so uncouth could be allowed into an upscale joint like this! THE NERVE! But when he realises that the blonde is a fighter for this match... Oh. Well. Have a good day, sir. He plunks down another glass on the table and waltzes away into the crowd clamoring for a start, even if it's far too early to begin.
Shrugging his shoulders lazily, Ash doesn't really care. He takes his sip of wine, then catches a strand of hair, twisting it around his index finger. Surprisingly, the rather effeminate individual got it cut recently, and it's a bit too short to look right with the headband, so he is found without today. Instead, the Frenchman actually... looks like a man, not counting the painted nails and his obvious mannerisms, plus that little clip in his hair, holding it away from his right ear. Freeeeeeeeakshow. "Je penser si j'avais le temps pour un reste breve." Ahhh~hhh. Who's he supposed to be fighting, anyway? Obviously Ash is so unconcerned because he didn't do the smart thing and check on this match AGAIN. Oh Crimson, when will you learn? He's about to get the shock of a lifetime.
There's a soft buzz hanging over the crowd as people gathered speak to one another, anticipating the fight that is to be had. While most SNF fights tend to draw all walks of life, the InterContinental Hotel is occupied tonight only by those of admirable wealth. All around suits can be seen amongst the few camera crews present, tying up loose ends just before the fight begins. People are dressed to the nines in anticipation of seeing a fight that will hopefully blend a mix the elegance of ballroom dance...and the excitement of a fight between skilled opponents.
A young man follows behind a woman, speaking quickly and nervously in native tongue as she marches forward. With her head held high above she strides with impeccable grace and confidence, which does well to dishearten and fluster the young waiter. Will she stop and listen to him? Doesn't she know the SNF crew isn't properly set up and need more time before she makes approach? And doesn't she realize that riding crop at her side is really unbecoming for attire such as that?
The flow of expensive black silk stills suddenly, falling lifelessly against pale calves as the woman's sharp heels come to a sudden and abrupt pause. She half-turns, her head turning slowly as she regards the busy waiter, who all but shrinks as the woman actually looks up on him. She says nothing, and does not need to - those hard, deep blue eyes of hers glare angrily, speaking volumes louder than any words could. But just in case things weren't clear...
"Begone. You are annoying me," she states, her words cold in their execution.
Without further interruption the Blanctorche heiress turns once more, marching toward the ballroom with one goal in mind. Approaching its elegant doors, the equally-elegant heiress pushes them open with little effort as she enters, surveying the room. It does not take long to spot ‘him.'
Whether or not he pays attention as well as she presumes he does not, the woman makes her approach from behind him, heels clicking rapidly against the floor. FINALLY she has come across the elusive Ash Crimson. Finally will she get the answers she seeks. Finally will she--
"Good evening, everyone! And now for the event you've been waiting for!"
Her hand taken, the woman is pulled aside and ushered toward the center floor, which has been cleared out for the fight to be had. Protesting in her native tongue, her words and frustrations go unheeded as the men guide her forward.
"Our first fighter for the evening hails from France, a mysterious woman and a new arrival to the Saturday Night Fights. The lovely and graceful Mademoiselle Blanctorche!"
And much to her chagrin a spotlight focuses on her, leaving her with an expression that is half-blank, half-angry. This is not what she anticipated.
Leaning his head back against the chair, it seems that the young man really /is/ prepared to make with the snoozing, but as it happens, after the interruption, NOW there has to be a commotion. One that Ash really doesn't care for due to his lack of involvement, so he doesn't bother with any acknowledgements up until he hears... Mademoiselle Blanctorche?! The champagne flute glass nearly winds up in his lap as his fingers slip, but he thrusts his hand out in a weird jerking motion, tossing it on the floor instead. Instantly, the red liquid spills out onto the carpet and ballroom floor, though the glass is saved from smashing as it doesn't quite make it to a less cushioned surface. Shocked, his arm retracts mechanically and Ash... is no longer lounging casually. He's sitting straight-backed in that chair, eyes wide, heart caught up in his throat until he manages to swallow it back down. They said she was a new arrival to the Saturday Night Fights too, even! So this means...
With a few deep breaths to compose himself, Iori Yagami's words from their last encounter flooding forwards to the very front of his memories, it seems to take an age before he's looking at the noblewoman from his past. Afterwards, it's the flamewielder doing his best to appear casual, sneaking an arm over the back of his seat as his baby blue eyes gaze across the distance that separates them. At the woman in the spotlight, her lovely visage. Of course, that riding crop is a sharp disturbance to the soft curves hidden by expensive silk, only further disrupted by the severity of her expression itself. He doesn't smile though, because Ash just isn't ready enough for that yet, and then the spotlight is on him, illuminating him while he remains sitting. All eyes focus then on the young man, and he loses sight of Elisabeth quite easily as on the overhead speakers, the announcer continues, "From origins unknown, a fan favourite returns from his Saturday Night Fight absence! A big welcome to... Ash Crimson!"
The servers on the side and SNF coordinators wave their hands wildly at the seated man, hoping to urge him to stand without winding up in the spotlight themselves, but the moment it moves to the judges, they're there. Ushering Ash out to the center of the cleared dance floor, it is with a quick, 'Listen to the rules!' in broken English, spoken to them both. Of course, said rules are announced along with the introductions of the utmost important viewers evaluating them, and the crowd is all for the idea. Women, men, their children... The wealthy. It's an idea with appeal, Ash has to admit, and then he looks to Elisabeth and... "Ahaha, Betty! Ca'va? Tu as grossi." Oh man, Ash... You're not supposed to say that to a woman unless you want to end up slapped, and those attendants said to LISTEN. But he has. He knows what this is about, and everything else... The flamewielder isn't fond of being restricted, so he only pays attention to a minimal amount.
The woman stands her ground beneath the spotlight, regardless of being caught off her guard. Fair features, while initially a curious one, ease into something far easier for her to wear--a look of utter impassiveness. There is no room for concern of matters trivial, such as being introduced to many faces, both present and sitting at home in front of their televisions. No, Elisabeth's agenda has far more important matters penciled in.
The spotlight does, however, make matters a little difficult for the Blanctorche heiress to search the crowd for the man she is looking for. Wincing slightly, a hand lifts, gently shielding her eyes as she attempts to pinpoint the errant Ash Crimson in that sea of well-dressed bodies before her. The look on her face exudes an air of seriousness. She means business.
The announcer ultimately winds up aiding the woman in her search. Introducing the man, he's ushered toward the stage by hurried coordinators, who desperately try to encourage him to get in place so the technical matters can be handled. The moment he begins to move, blue depths hone in on the white-haired man, brows knitting slightly in an expression that could likely be interpreted as ‘thoughtfulness.'
She says nothing as the pair are otherwise lined up. Instead her gaze remains firmly locked on the man, jaw squared as she stares. For a moment it's very likely her stony gaze could put Medusa herself to shame. Fortunately, Ash does not turn to stone. Instead he opens his mouth, and all the wrong words tumble out.
Lips pull tightly, brows shifting only slightly as the woman's features threaten to shift to something far-less attractive. Rather than do so, however, she simply exhales, listening idly to the instruction of the coordinator. For a moment she seems obedient and well-mannered. Then?
"<<And it would seem...some things never change, Ash Crimson.>>" she says, in native tongue. Pursing her lips, she pauses briefly, considering her words carefully before she tilts her head up. Lips part, a breath is sucked in. She is about to speak, when--
"BEGIN!"
Again, Elisabeth seems a touch confused, perhaps more so as the music swells, an in-house orchestra playing its piece. Her gaze shifts briefly, turning toward the gathered musicians before she simply looks to Ash. "Betty" is not happy. At all.
How many years has it been? Four? Clearly not enough, because the young man still feels like he only left the Blanctorche estate just yesterday, but enough time's passed that the stern noblewoman's features need to be learned all over again. He could recall things about her, but as the days turned to weeks, weeks to months and so on, that memory becomes less photographic every day she wouldn't enter his mind. The very last signs of shock fade from Ash as he waits, because really, he mentally reasons, with Iori announcing that the heiress was here, searching for him, this meeting was going to happen eventually. It's more the encounter happening at SNF though, Elisbeth's presence in a match like this, that startled him more than anything. Really shook the Frenchman out of his groove, but anyway... Back to the happens around them. Smiling cheerfully as she seems less than impressed with his remark, Ash doesn't bother to support or deny her statement, instead saying, playfully: "Ooo la la... The tango."
It's moments after the initial chords are struck, and an easy tempo weaves its way throughout the room; the cameras are focused on the pair now and the crowd takes a collective breath as one. These two clearly know one another, and the vibes permeate the area quickly, adding more entertainment value to the upcoming match. "It looks like this is more of a show than a fight." He says, stating the obvious; at the very least, Ash assauges half of the onlookers' worries by being... Perfectly okay with this particular arrangement! "It's been a terribly long time since I've had to dance, but I'm quite sure I'll manage with such a beautiful partner." The blonde adds, sweetly teasing his 'partner', and with that, the Frenchman extends his hand - carefully manicured nails flashing in the light - to Elisabeth, fully intending on pulling her towards him for some good ole fashioned Argentine Tango. That's what the music seems paced for, after all. Of course, they'll start off with the embrace, the dance is meant to begin, his lead foot ready to extend back.
COMBATSYS: Ash has started a fight here on the left meter side.
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Ash 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Elisabeth has joined the fight here.
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////////////////]
Ash 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Elisabeth
It has been far too many years, and the absence has left an ill taste within the heiress' mouth. His unheralded absence was unexpected, the woman left with far too many questions and few answers. While he may have forgotten things about her, Elisabeth remembers well practically everything, and such is clear on her face, as she looks at him with such a hard expression. Those dark blue eyes all but demand he explain himself and, more importantly, his actions.
Though he smiles, the Blanctorche heiress remains firm and resolute in posture, though her face remains otherwise blank. The tango? "Great," she comments, her words less-than enthusiastic. And here she had hoped by joining the SNF she could better track him. But by some cruel twist of Fate, she has to face him and, worse off, she has to dance with him.
She has no time to protest; seconds after the music swells, stretching out across the ballroom as the spotlight focuses on the pair of acquainted fighters. Truly this fight will be...unique, evident by the looks on the faces of the well-dressed onlookers.
"Indeed. Isn't that what this is? A spectacle? You should feel at ease. Isn't this your, as they say, cup of tea?" Furrowing her brows softly, the woman's lips rouge red lips pull into a thin line, but she keeps her calm. His flattery gets him nowhere, and only do her eyes stir from his pale blue depths when he extends his hand to her. She briefly observes it before she gracefully lifts her own, eyes drawing to a close as she nestles her palm against his.
"Just try to keep up with me," she states, her words soft, audible only to her newfound partner. Does she speak of the tango, or the inevitable fight?
Pulled into the starting embrace, there is no real look of...well, anything on Elisabeth's face. Following the motions, she holds close, chest to his as her arm folds gracefully around his shoulder, the other hand rising, to meet his in midair. Poised in a manner most delicate, the woman waits, and only stirs as he slides his lead foot back. Elisabeth follows the motion, her corresponding leg stirring, following the lead, followed by a graceful side-step, coupled with a step back by Ash's lead. The dance begins, their motions in synch with the tempo of the orchestra's song.
During this, the woman's eyes are focused entirely on Ash's face. "<<So tell me,>>" she asks. "<<Why did you leave without so much as a word?>>"
"Really." Ash responds curiously to the challenge, though he doesn't bother to ask her for clarification on just WHAT she's implying, and instead simply pulls the Blanctorche heiress towards his chest, sweeping his right arm around her. Hand soon nestled on her back, when she's all prepared as well with her arm around his shoulder, the Frenchman guides his partner with that palm on her back while he takes a step back with the right foot. The left follows, almost connecting the other ankle, but then fully extends out towards the side with a slight turn, and he's quite pleased that she can keep with his movements so easily... Otherwise, they'd both end up embarassed.
The tango continues, just a general testing of the waters, judging the noblewoman's level of skill. Two steps back, Ash keeps his thin hips angled so that he moves on the outside, and just as she readies the crossover, he extends to the left again in a slidestep, persuading her to follow. "Ah, so that's why you were looking for me." He says, mostly to himself, and as she speaks, he looks away from her face and up towards the ceiling momentarily. "You know, the tango is a dance of passion. It's meant to be sensual, fluid..." When he uses the nudge of his hand to alert Elisabeth that he will be stepping forwards, the flamewielder leans in as well, mouth level with her ear, "We're being judged on elegance, and while I'm sure you care little for winning, I don't believe you want to be humiliated by me on television either." And that's it, he doesn't even bother to answer her question, just dodges it completely, and withdraws with a smile, blue eyes reduced to slits and the basic step with the added slide soon finished shortly thereafter. Now, the fun begins.
His response is met with a level gaze, dark blue depths grave and serious as she looks toward him. Easing in close, the woman nestles into a posture most familiar, one arm extended, the other rested along the length of his opposite shoulder. Ready now, the dance begins with a slow move of Ash's lead foot, all but a prelude to the excitement sure to come.
Still, Elisabeth remains ever so calm. She follows his lead, head held high as she flows gracefully with the motions, keeping up with the Frenchman without fail. Every step is followed in perfect time, the soft click of her black heels against hardwood floor marking every motion she makes. Pleased he may be, but Elisabeth is simply entertaining him and the audience observing the duo in the center of that bright spotlight.
For all the uncertainty and distrust that she may exude in his presence, the woman's posture and demeanor would suggest she is without an ounce of discomfort. She makes the crossover when necessary, her leg following his as he extends his left, before her right leg stirs, sliding back, their dance taking them two paces back. "Indeed," she replies, even as he looks to the ceiling. Will he answer her questions? Finally, after so long will she have answers?
Of course not. "I am aware," she states, her tone stern and unamused. The hand at her back is noted, and with it she follows, stepping back as he makes the move forward. However, as he leans in toward her ear, eyes narrow. "And just what is that supposed to mean?" she replies, each syllable as cold as ice. Humiliate her? She scoffs softly. Her frustration is mounting, evident by the slightest tick of her thin brow.
Still, however, Elisabeth maintains her cool, following his lead. Their steps bring them back to the beginning, and like clockwork the woman follows the same steps as before, the lead held by Ash as they move about the floor.
Unfortunately for Elisabeth, that grip on the lead is one as strong as titanium, and there's no escape from his arms. At least, not until the opportune moment, and he's still waiting for the cue of the orchestra on that one. With no intentions to get the jump on the fight, the lean fighter also wouldn't want to be caught off-guard either, especially by that nasty riding crop. It leaves behind quite the welt, Ash would know.
His movements are certainly with the music in the meantime, and lack the usual sashay of his hips. He moves much how one with the POWER TO CONTROL would, and suddenly guides the heiress under his arm as they complete the first sidestep together, bringing her back in against his chest. The hand at her back is placed upon the silken fabric over her hip lightly, while the other remains still grasping hers. He urges the dark-haired woman forwards into a simple step-step, crossover patterned walk, followed by a lean forwards, before reaching underneath, displacing the lovely lady's weight and bringing her back into his arms. Facing him, of course. Oh Ash, how you make the old bitties in faint in their seats. "It's supposed to mean exactly what I said, cherie." Expression coy, eyes half-lidded, he hovers as he holds the heiress, then pulls her up to right them both. The simple, basic steps are brought to a completion again, presumably to be followed by another set with Ash's hand instinctively guiding her wherever his whims take him at her back.
As tight as the grasp on her hand and at her back may be, the woman seems to remain calm, without any intention of leaving anytime soon. The pair follow, one another, their steps fluid and graceful, both fighters in synch with one another, offering an impressive display of elegance. The upbringing of the noble Blanctorche heiress is more than obvious with how she maintains a regal posture all the while.
By his lead they complete the first set of steps, and again the woman is pulled in, held close against his chest. As expected she steps forward, repeating the same crossover walk with the Frenchman as he moves. While other women may blush or find themselves flustered with the sudden lean toward, the Frenchwoman maintains that calm facade, following his lead by leaning back. And once again does she follow as he scoops an arm beneath her, her arms returning to his shoulder and palm.
The faintest of smirks haunts Elisabeth's lips as she meets his gaze. "I see," she replies, eyes hooding as she studies his face. Another set of steps complete, the pair makes their rounds across, following the flow of music as it maintains that languid pace.
And then the music swells, the tempo increasing as the orchestra employs a livelier pace. With the swell of music Elisabeth offers a dramatic push back against Ash, followed by a swift and fluid lift of her leg, coiling it at her side beneath the black silk of her dress before she thrusts it forward, executing a sidekick at his gut in synch with the peppery beat that fills the ballroom.
COMBATSYS: Ash dodges Elisabeth's Light Kick.
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////////////////]
Ash 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Elisabeth
Huh. You know, perhaps this would explain the interesting selection for such an event, their chance meeting here in Hong Kong: Together, they clearly make quite the match. The dance is impressive indeed, and though her posture is admirably regal through-out, she's stiff, and Ash can feel it with his hand on her back. Elisabeth's always been uptight and proper, though. The ideal heir, the dependable person that the weak can count on... Unlike the Frenchman, who'd throw his own friends to the dogs if it meant saving himself. He never used to be like that, but times change and he went right along with the flow.
Pity that with the flamewielder's smooth footwork, his motions and how he keeps his blue eyes locked upon hers for the most part, she isn't so easily won over. It wouldn't hurt for her to... show some emotion, but that'd be expecting far too much, so he doesn't. Her calm facade is simply taken in and left as is with no demands... But wait... As soon as his foot's sliding back, Ash is also being PUSHED away dramatically! That's something. Registering the swell of the music, he's springing into action. She lifts that leg in a sidekick and the Frenchman? He chuckles softly at the heiress and twists his body in a lean to the back and side at the same time. The foot grazes past him, and as she's left over-extended? Sorry! Both hands igniting at once, it's a close-quarters hucking two fireballs into the woman's face! Or Ash attempts to, at the very least. "My my, I see London, I see France!" Ha ha ha, ass. It's in this giggly sing-song tone of voice, too. Just smack him.
COMBATSYS: Ash successfully hits Elisabeth with Ventose.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ///////////////////////// ]
Ash 0/-------/------=|==-----\-------\0 Elisabeth
A match, perhaps, but Elisabeth seems unimpressed at best, her features cool and stern as they move about. Ash is aware; he can feel it in her posture, but such is perhaps typical and expected of a woman of Elisabeth Blanctorche's caliber. Ideal, perhaps, but only to an exclusive audience. Most would likely assume she's incredibly uptight and immensely spoiled. But the Blanctorche heiress isn't that shallow.
Their gaze locked, Elisabeth remains confident and calm as they stride across the floor. Show emotion? That would be asking much of her, indeed; instead she maintains that cool visage, brows furrowed only slightly as they make another graceful round. Only, when the music swells, Elisabeth moves. Pushing him back, she lifts a leg and attempts to strike out against him, but he's quicker than she anticipates, her heel left to strike empty air.
Those well-manicured hands of his ignite with those peculiar green flames, dark eyes widening only briefly. Launched, those green flames hit the woman, sending her staggering back a few steps in response. Still, despite the less-than graceful stagger, the woman maintains her balance and grace, hands lifting to adjust her garments as she takes a moment to...collect her wits before glancing up and squaring her gaze on the Frenchman.
COMBATSYS: Elisabeth gains composure.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////////////////// ]
Ash 0/-------/------=|-------\-------\0 Elisabeth
Or /don't/ march over there to clock him, the choice is yours; but after the commentary and having fire thrown straight in her face... Ash was rather positive that there'd be repercussions. After all, he INSULTED the Blanctorche heiress, but whatever. As she merely squares herself across from him, fussing over her expensive silk gown, the Frenchman dramatically... sorts his hair. He runs those long, slender digits back through it, tousling the loose strands, smiling cheerfully all the while. "Oh, come now." Ash then finally says, and hand finding its way to his hip, the other is extended gracefully out in a gesture towards her. The music, the tempo is still set at the pace for a fight, so don't misinterpret, "This isn't the way we're supposed to play."
With that feminine saunter of his, so different from his style of movement in dance, the flamewielder approaches until he's gotten all up in the woman's personal space... Not as close as he was just a minute ago though, tee hee. "It's been so long since we've sparred, Betty. Didn't you declare your rivalry with me after I beat you? You've certainly been doing a terrible job of upholding your end, I'm..." Leg suddenly snapping up to his chest, "DISAPPOINTED!" And then he lashes out in a kick so similar to hers, learned and taken from the Blanctorche style, from his years spent under the tutelage of Elisabeth's father. It's not aiming for her midsection, though. More cutting up in an arc for her jaw, to knock the noblewoman right off her feet.
COMBATSYS: Elisabeth blocks Ash's Heavy Kick.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ///////////////////////// ]
Ash 0/-------/-----==|=------\-------\0 Elisabeth
To do so would be rather uncouth of her, especially in this sort of setting. Instead Elisabeth adjusts her garments, smoothing the skirt of her silk dress back into proper place before smoothing out her hair. He speaks to her and Elisabeth looks up, listening as he speaks, explaining himself. Play? She very nearly smirks at that.
He moves however, the woman's posture stiffening as he draws near. She doesn't move; instead Elisabeth holds her ground, slender hands rested casually at her side. "I haven't forgotten," she states, her tone assured. "But I find myself surprised that you seem to remember that much." Blue eyes narrow as he stirs, the hiss of cloth betraying him.
"Forgive me, then," Eyes shut, and the woman's hand jerks out, intercepting the kick in the palm of her hand. For a moment the woman stands still before she moves swiftly. A hand drops to her side as her foot lifts, the woman moving forward in short time. Lunging at Ash, the woman unsheaths her crop, to slam the hilt of it against his gut. "I'm just a little rusty."
COMBATSYS: Ash interrupts Fierra from Elisabeth with Nivose.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////////// ]
Ash 0/-------/---====|====---\-------\0 Elisabeth
Surprised that he remembered that much? Well, though his memory is horrendous, there are some things that DO stand out, and that just so happens to be one of them. Easily forgetting the person who you spent so long trying to surpass, until you finally accomplished it... Ash would need BRAIN DAMAGE not to be able to freshly recall her reaction to the loss at his hands. Which, though he's been punched and headbutted fairly often by a certain brutish Shanghai brawler, isn't the case. With Elisabeth catching his foot, he remains extended like that briefly, smile transforming into a nasty little smirk. "Then maybe you should have come looking for me when you were ready, oui?" He taunts. As the crop is thrusted at his gut, he drops his leg back to the dance floor, and suddenly kneels.
The hilt of the crop cuts across his shoulder, leaving an unseen burn behind in its wake, but his opponent has left herself wide open. The freckled face twists into an even nastier expression, and with a quick twist, his back is facing the heiress, "TOO SLOW!" shouts the Frenchman, and he springs. Like a bullet shot from a gun, while the woman is still in motion, he kicks up straight into her mid-section, followed by continuing up and over. A complete backflip from that crouching position, and the crowd stares in shock at first before applauding politely. Ash's arms extend out to each side, balacing him and allowing him to float back down to the floor, which he does quite primly, dusting off the shoulder of his tuxedo jacket. "Again, Betty." He commands firmly, "Try harder, or else you just might wind up boring me." The arrogance of young Crimson shows through, as he beckons for the woman to advance on him with a finger.
The woman makes her move. Retaliating against the Frenchman's failed attempt, Elisabeth holds tightly to the grip of the crop at her side as she steps in. Soon it becomes clear why she wears it; thrusting it forward from her side, its hilt seeks out what of Ash Crimson it can bite. He kneels, drawing a mildly surprised look over her pale features. What is he doing?
It becomes clear when he twists his body and shouts, the woman's brows lofting slightly. What is he planning precisely? The kick to her gut makes it as clear as crystal as she's juggled into the air as Ash himself lands gracefully. It stings something fierce, her features briefly seized in an expression of discomfort before she twists her body, landing feet-first, as opposed to flat on her back.
"I see," she replies, eyes narrowing the slightest touch before she exhales. Has she, in fact, gotten rusty? Or has he just surpassed her in his skill? Pursing her lips, the Blanctorche heiress hesitates a moment before she lunges at the Frenchman, her hand still at her side. As she nears she withdraws the crop, to lash out at Ash before she pivots on her sharp heel, to deliver a back kick at his gut should the first motion connect.
COMBATSYS: Ash blocks Elisabeth's Heavy Kick.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////////// ]
Ash 0/-------/--=====|====---\-------\0 Elisabeth
Considering that she manages to keep to her feet after being kicked like that, Ash has to give the heiress some credit: Elisabeth takes a beating better than he would, but the woman also should be glad that he didn't bother with the fire. Some people the white-haired fighter faces aren't quite so lucky. Take Shenwoo, for instance! Why, every opportunity the Frenchman gets, he'll HAPPILY set his roommate on fire. What a prick Crimson is.
The lunge is observed smugly, and he actually checks his nails first, turning them in towards himself, before dropping that arm along his side and waiting. As that crop is withdrawn yet again, the flamewielder's already small pupils narrow even further. It may not be the smartest thing to do, but he catches the leather tongue of the horsewhip with his bare hand, cringing just a little as it stings upon contact. The heel, if she does bother with it, means Elisabeth winds up having her leg caught. "Well, at least you dance better than you fight, cherie." The Frenchman muses, and no sooner has he finished that statement when staccatos trail off, and the tempo slows, easing back into the dance. Ash slides his hand down the length of the riding crop to take her own, "I'm afraid you're going to have to put that away again." And when she does, and the embrace of Argentine Tango is assumed, he'll lead her into a more complicated variant of the basic steps, now moving into improvisation, going with the flow of the music, wherever it may take them.
Perhaps she is lucky. As far as Elisabeth is concerned, however, she's simply made a few miscalculations, ones she is intent on refraining from doing so in the future. Has she underestimated the Frenchman? Perhaps.
Making her move, Elisabeth lunges toward the pale-haired fighter, withdrawing the crop from at her side. But just as she lashes out the Frenchman snags her crop and ultimately her leg, drawing a briefly startled look from the heiress. Is he preparing a counterattack? Judging by the way Elisabeth's shoulder tense, her posture stiff and rigid, anticipating an attack from the man.
"Qui?" Blue eyes search Ash's face, brows lightly knit as she stares. Insult is clear in those dark depths, her jaw set as she simply stares. His words earn him a scoff, her hand quickly jerking the crop from Crimson before she resheaths it before placing her hand into his. "You continue to give me less reason to remain civil with you, Ash," she replies, her words harsh and low, for his ears only as the tempo slows. Again in the embrace of the Frenchman, Elisabeth seems a willing partner in their dance as she follows his lead, keeping up in step and time with the orchestra's song. Her movements are fluid and graceful, the heiress a partner most cooperative and attentive to the steps he takes.
Unfortunately, she doesn't seem to pleased about it as they grace the ballroom floor.
Now really, why would she not want to be civil with the likes of Ash Crimson? When they've gone from fighting back to dancing, the Frenchman couldn't seem more cheerful, and those nasty looks from earlier disappear entirely. In fact, at the harsh statement, he simply smiles brightly... Perhaps just trying to provoke her. "Ah, Betty, can't we have fun? I've missed teasing you," He chirps sweetly, though for claiming it's merely in jest, he /is/ being overall malicious: From stating that the heiress has gained weight, to taunting her as they fought... Ash sure must have a seriously screwed up idea as to what constitutes as friendly joshing.
Easing his hand away from her back to the curve of her side, waiting until the noblewoman finds balance on one foot, he walks while turning her, gracefully covering the floor as he steps from toe to heel. The motion is then followed up as the flamewielder allows Elisabeth to spin freely momentarily, hand brushing along the silk across her midsection as she goes, and isn't that just positively creepy? Catching her again as soon as she's facing him, resuming the embrace, Ash uses the raised hand clasping hers to urge the heiress back two steps and into a crossover, before pulling her forwards to repeat. In a way, he'd actually rather do this than fight, you know. Much less likely to get his face or clothes ruined; the remains of a bruise still can be seen across the right cheek. No doubt the Blanctorche woman will have already noticed, being as close as they are.
Like night and day, the chemistry between Elisabeth seems to just...work. Well-dressed observers watch with stilled breath as the pair resume dancing once again, their motions graceful and as elegant as the threads they wear. Little are they aware of what conspires between them as they linger so close, chest to chest in typical Argentine Tango fashion.
"Then why did you leave?" she asks in a matter-of-factly fashion, blue eyes harsh as the look into those pale depths before her. Brows knit softly before she simply scoffs, looking over his shoulder momentarily before she turns her attention back onto the Frenchman, her dancing partner of the evening.
Following his lead quite easily, the woman turns by his guidance, still close as they traverse the spot-lit floor beneath them. As she's released the Frenchwoman twirls, the hem of her skirt swelling out as she spins. Creepy as his hand may be, the woman seems not to notice, keeping a stern and serious look on pale features. The release is brief; pulled forward once more, the embrace is made, her hand in his, an arm across his shoulder. They move again, two steps and a crossover, Elisabeth uses the pause to release her grip, to rest at his side as she lifts a leg, her left, to fold it around and behind the Frenchman. They spin, the woman's eyes focused on the man with a look that could freeze water, her lips pulled tightly as she stares.
Of course she notices. But she thinks nothing of it, it would seem.
Pushing off, the woman reassume their typical chest-to-chest stance, her hand returning to his as they proceed with the tango. They cross the floor by his lead, her steps graceful but swift, heels clicking softly against the floor as they move, another pause made after an impressive display of footwork. But at this pause the woman's legs move, perhaps a bit fiery than before. Why?
He's getting on her nerves.
Oh ho? Instead of two steps back with a crossover, there's a leg slipped around him, drawing them sensuously close to one another... But who am I kidding? She's like a barely chained, rabid wolverine, looking at him like that; this is hardly the passionate gesture it's meant to be between partners. Regardless, Ash seems rather unperturbed, and adjusts his movements to pull the woman along in a spin together, where thereafter she rights herself. Possibly because the lean fighter lifts Elisabeth in the process with that arm around her waist.
Relaxing his hold as she pushes off of him, indeed, they traverse the floor once again, and the footwork is most spectacular, all improvised and keeping time. Even Ash himself would have to admit, there's a chemisty here that works for them, despite her exuded animosity. That blatant dislike intensifies too, the Frenchman can tell; the body language gives it away, her movements showing that her patience is wearing thin, but if she wants an answer to the question, she's going to have to learn some fresh patience. It's a good minute later before he replies at all, and it's delivered with one of those pencil-thin eyebrows raised, his tone soft, syrupy, "Might I ask why it was so imperative that you find me?" Again, he dodges, and then, helping his subterfuge... It would appear there has been a chance in tempo, as well as a key change.
Ash breaks the embrace of the tango first this time, quite ready for what the diffence in music entails, and as he does so, he kicks off the ground with his leading foot and springs up into the air. Arms raised up over his head, the freckle-faced fighter rapidly whirls and lashes out with a heavy kick aimed for Elisabeth's shoulder. It's that fruity pirouette move! Of course, it still seems like dancing, but... Not so much a tango, anymore. Is Ash hoping to get the drop on Elisabeth, before she gets used to the change in pace? Naturally! Any advantage that is extended to him he will seize.
Indeed; the look in Elisabeth's eye is intense, but not passionate. Her eyes are hard, cold even as she gracefully strides across the floor with him, her movements and elegance belying that look with which Ash Crimson seems to be familiar. To the casual observers that watch them from the sides, they are a sight to behold...
...however one-sided the skill between the pair as fighters may seem.
Regardless, Elisabeth holds her head up high, confident still. They continue to move, their movements in synch with the tempo and beat of the orchestra's tango, facing one another, chest to chest. After a moment of silence he replies, and in response the woman's brows furrow slightly. He has to ask? Red lips part, a breath inhaled as she readies a response.
Then the tempo picks up once more.
Their embrace shattered, the silver-haired fighter springs up and away, attacking the woman with a maneuver that is ‘different' at best. As he comes her slender digits flicker with chi, points of light igniting at their tips. Just before his feet descend she swipes her hand forward, an attempt to catch that offending foot in the glow that erupts before her.
But she is too slow. The kick lands solidly, the woman's lean figure stumbling back a few sloppy steps as she lifts her opposite hand to her shoulder, clasping at the welt that forms beneath her palm. Never, however, does that harsh, navy blue gaze leave Ash Crimson.
It's satisfying, how as he notices the chi flickering to life, dancing along his opponent's fingertips, she's simply not fast enough, and his foot connects quite solidly with her shoulder. When Elisabeth stumbles back, Ash completes the spinning motion meant to carry him away, and upon landing, he reaches up to adjust the neatly tied cravat around his neck, before running a finger along the inside cuff of his jacket, making sure his outfit is sorted and he still looks his best. Returning the harsh gaze across the distance that separates them, it is with an infuriatingly sweet and peaceful expression of his own. Slowly tilting his head to the side, the Frenchman's posture is all casual and relaxed too. The absolute nerve!
Behind him, the crowd chants for the heiress, urging her to strike back... Because a close fight is far more entertaining, and besides that, the underdog is always the favourite... At least, until THEY end up with the advantage. That and she's... relatively normal. Despite being without his headband and such, Ash still is a strange, strange man, and the audience can just feel it. Oh well! "Je sais!" Says the flamewielder suddenly, and drawing his hand up to his face, he traces a finger along that sharp jawline, tucking the knuckle beneath his chin momentarily. "Since this match is already decided, why don't we have supper afterwards? They're serving some delicious escargot here, and the wine is excellent. I'm sure it'll measure up to your standards." Ahaha, is he for real? ... Nah, he's just being a jerk. Ash really wouldn't want to stick around, to be honest. Elisabeth would probably hound him with questions, and how could he have a peaceful dinner like that? But, notice how he isn't doing much of anything, looking up towards the ceiling? That means the Frenchman... no longer perceives his partner as a threat. He's bored. Even taunting her has lost its appeal, arrogance radiating from his stance.
COMBATSYS: Ash takes no action.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ///////////// ]
Ash 0/-------/-======|=======\-------\0 Elisabeth
While the crowd may chant for her, the woman all but ignores them. She can't hear them right now, not when all she sees is that freckled face smiling at her, practically taunting her with his whimsical and carefree expressions. He isn't taking this seriously, is he? Of course not. Is it a game to Ash? Very likely.
Still, the woman somehow maintains her cool on the outside. After a moment she straightens her posture, her long back straightening as a hand mindfully smooths out the hem of her silk dress. She has an appearance to maintain, after all. Even if he's swiftly fraying what nerves the noblewoman possesses.
"I'm afraid I will have to decline, monsieur Crimson," she replies, her words as cool as ice as she looks toward the Frenchman. She has more pressing matters on her mind, such as figuring out just why he decided to leave unannounced. What is he planning? He's not as innocent as he tries to appear.
Arrogant? Elisabeth's lips quirk into a faint smirk, fair features briefly lit up by...amusement? He's bored? Very well. The woman moves swiftly; jerking to life, Elisabeth tears across the floor, zeroing in on the freckled Frenchman before she pivots on her heel, her opposite leg rising in a swift, circular motion before she attempts to drop it down--painfully--on Ash's shoulder.
COMBATSYS: Elisabeth successfully hits Ash with Heavy Kick.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ///////////// ]
Ash 1/-------/=======|=======\-------\0 Elisabeth
That... draws his attention, and quite quickly, too. Eyes lazily travelling down from the ceiling to Elisabeth's face, his expression fades away to something neutral. It's hard to determine just what might be going through his head, or why there's such a sudden change, but then... "'Monsieur Crimson', is it?" He says, possibly sounding offended. Exhaling though, Ash shrugs, and it's back to the whimsical... act? Whatever! He's certainly not claiming to be innocent, nor pretending either... So wherever the heiress got that idea, it's entirely of her own making.
Turning away as the crowd continues to cheer for the noblewoman, he glances over them impassively, blue eyes roaming across their number, as if this was the first time he even bothered to acknowledge them, and as the woman's intent is felt, Ash turns back to Elisabeth. What he does, however, is surprising: The Frenchman, watching coldly while she pivots on her heel, that leg rising in the air... He doesn't move. There's no reaction except that he braces himself, and it would appear that, as the heel is brought crashing down on his shoulder, the power is more than he expected. His legs buckle, and soon Ash is sent slamming down to the dance floor on his knees... But at least the view is nice! "Well, it's a shame you're not interested then, Mademoiselle Blanctorche." A smile of faux sadness creases the alabastor features, briefly telegraphing that something bad is about to happen. He shoots up, clenched fist leading the path of what's going to be a damn nasty uppercut. Yet another move so similar to the Blanctorche style, but modified as he saw fit.
COMBATSYS: Elisabeth blocks Ash's Strong Punch.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////// ]
Ash 1/------=/=======|=======\-------\1 Elisabeth
Now having gotten Ash Crimson's attention, the woman remains stern-faced and serious. Of course she refers to him as ‘Monsieur.' That's proper, isn't it? Even as he exhales in defeat, the woman maintains her serious. Just as he is unwilling to be forthright with himself, she doesn't seem to be speaking much, if whatsoever.
Adding insult to injury, the Frenchman turns his BACK to Elisabeth. The nerve. Furrowing her thin brows, the woman sprints forward with surprising grace, despite the sharp heels worn on her feet. As she nears her leg rises and descends, crashing down upon Ash, breaking through his defenses and sending him crashing to the floor. Following through, the woman plants her foot down once more with a soft ‘click,' taking a few steps back.
"I'm sorry to disappoint you, Monsieur Crimson," she replies, her tone lifeless, almost insincere. Then again, Elisabeth's always been rather straight-laced.
Dark eyes flicker as the young man lunges into attack, that fist noted. Her hands jerk forward almost immediately, to intercept the fist by the wrist. The swiftness of his motion jerks the woman a bit, a grunt slipping past her lips as she maintains a hold on his hand, his knuckles just beneath her jaw. A close call. Eyes hood, her expression cold.
With her hand clamped around his wrist the woman pulls, to heft the Frenchman up and over her shoulder before rolling him over her back, toward the floor in an attempt to ground him on the ballroom floor. Again.
COMBATSYS: Ash blocks Elisabeth's Quick Throw.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////// ]
Ash 1/------=/=======|=======\-------\1 Elisabeth
... Defeat? Ha, she so wishes that's why he was sighing. "Oh?" Ash says with interest as Elisabeth handily intercepts his fist, and he looks up at the heiress for a moment with an odd expression. It would seem that he's smiling faintly, but his eyes are soulless depths, devoid of any warmth whatsoever. There's... nothing in his eyes, just the unpredictable pinpoints of black. Hand twisting to grasp his wrist stilled beneath her jaw, he's actually so kind as to offer her little assistance! As she hefts him up, the Frenchman intentionally jumps along with it, long legs stretching out in a beautiful arc that draws impressed 'oooos' and 'ahhhs' from the bystanders. He glances at the woman below him momentarily while passing overhead, and then... jerks his arm free from her grasp.
Moments later, he touches down with catlike grace, knees bending to cushion his landing, but the lean fighter is hardly grounded the way she wanted him. "That's life, I suppose. It's always full of disappointments." He COULD say like this fight, but the dancing bit was enjoyable. Ash has no complaints. She certainly fulfilled his expectations in that regard. "Like how you've decided to begin referring to me as 'Monsieur Crimson'. I always pictured our joyful reunion involving you sweetly calling my name, perhaps some tears..." Though with his plans, his reasons for departure, if the flamewielder could be any more full of it, his eyes would be turning brown. A shake of his head though, and then... Well, Ash doesn't do a whole lot right away. It would seem that a new song has begun in the background, and it's not quite time to return to the dance yet, but he's still no longer interested. The attention was brief only because she OFFENDED him. Should he just end this?
Suddenly, hands igniting with green flames, he traces them through the air in front of him and a sphere quickly forms before his chest, and the gouts of emerald are soon weaving into it, expanding the ball until it practically crawls with his energy. One old man tumbles off his seat in fright at the display, but it's not something uncommon. Fighters with super-powers? Welcome to the day and age where anyone and everyone just about damn well has them. Ash then, with a sickly green glow reflected on his freckled-face, smiles more broadly than before, and gently ushers it off towards the heiress. Like a parent, lovingly urging their child to the playground, and the sphere is set to a spin, to which once it picks up just a little momentum, is a nigh unstoppable ball of PAIN.
COMBATSYS: Ash successfully hits Elisabeth with Thermidor.
- Power hit! -
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ///// ]
Ash 0/-------/------=|=======\====---\1 Elisabeth
He soars, but he does not kiss the ground as she so wishes. Instead he goes with the proverbial flow, held in her grasp before he simply releases himself and lands before her with his impressive grace, his gesture earning him a collective sigh and clap from the observers. Elisabeth, however, remains as unimpressed as ever; when she stands upright the woman's features are stern, her eyes narrowed slightly.
"Indeed," she replies, a woman of few words it would seem. "As for tears? I'm sorry, but they are unbecoming of a Blanctorche, I'm afraid. I have no time for those." Not when she has to figure out just what made him leave. Boredom is too simple an excuse for a man as complex as Ash.
Her shoulders tense as his hands ignite, the woman's features alert. She sees it coming and, quite frankly, seems ready for it. But, as before, the Frenchwoman has underestimated Ash. It barrels forward and strikes her arms, but proves far more potent than she gives it credit for. The sphere of green energy breaks through and crashes against the woman, striking her fiercely within its embrace before she's sent flying back, hitting the floor and rolling quite disgracefully.
For a moment the woman remains still, unmoving as she lay face-down on the ground. Has he won? Is she finally giving up? A frown briefly crosses her red lips before she staggers to her feet, looking at the white-haired man most intently. He likely knows that look. She's angry now.
Her hands burst to life with brilliant white chi as she lunges forward, giving her last bit of effort in closing in before she simply arches her back, arms outstretching from her sides as the air ignites with energy, bursts of chi erupting every which way all around her.
Only when they subside does the woman crumple to her knees, looking ragged and worse for wear.
COMBATSYS: Elisabeth can no longer fight.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Ash 0/-------/------=|
COMBATSYS: Ash just-defends Elisabeth's Noble Brass!
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Ash 0/-------/------=|
Come now, Elisabeth. Don't look so terribly unimpressed. After all, he was a prodigy, a natural, studying the Blanctorche arts, and excelled beautifully under that family's tutelage. Shouldn't the heiress be pleased that the training has produced a talented fighter like Ash Crimson? He would think so, but this matter is neither here nor there. Obviously, the woman doesn't view things in such a manner and, well, c'est la vie.
"To be human is to shed tears..." Ash says with a far-off expression, one of pure contemplation, and it's rather unlikely that his opponent will catch even a word of it, busy as she is with that rolling ball of flames on a trajectory to engulf her person. He really is a complex individual, for those who know him, but they are few and far between. The Frenchman really doesn't put forth any effort to allow people to get close to him. Since his past with Elisabeth, it's just been Shenwoo, and there's only so much the brawler understands about his roommate. Surely, the Shanghai-born mutt only views Ash as an annoyance, a moocher living off of someone else's funds, the flamewielder is quite certain. Nothing more, nothing less.
Laughing musically when she falls in a far less than graceful manner, Ash seems quite pleased by this outcome. He's almost tempted to extend a hand up to Elisabeth, but she looks rather determined when staggering to her feet. Both his eyebrows lift, one vanishing beneath the curtain of his white bangs, cascading over half of his freckled face. "Temper, temper." Ash chides the noblewoman in a condescending, holier than thou tone, and as her hands burst to life with the strange chi that manifests in white light? He grits his teeth together; enough with the joking around. Being less than absolutely serious here could result in an injury he'd rather not sustain.
She closes in on him, and as the air ignites with her energy, explosions of light all around him, Ash's response is to exhale slowly and summon some of his own chi. The green flames immediately pour out from his fingertips, and then, he spins, tracing through the air around him a circle that expands in both directions until he's shielded entirely. The white light, the bursts of chi, explode harmlessly all around him, and the ones that are unlucky enough to stray close to his barrier? Burn up before even managing that. In the end, pushing the flames out, in an impressive flare as the white light makes its last stand, the green flames roll over it like a wave, and then dissipate. The Frenchman checks his nails as Elisabeth crumples to her knees. "Well, it was a good try, but... Bonne chance le prochain temps!" He says, somehow managing to encourage her without sounding aware of the irony. Or maybe he's just an ass?
His remark is shrugged off with little more than a soft scoff, Elisabeth's chin lifting in an almost defiant, arrogant gesture. Human she may be, but far be her to concern herself about tears; she's said as much, regardless of what Ash himself may believe. Instead she simply averts her eyes to her flowing gown, smoothing out the hem with slender hands.
Not that there's much time to reply. The sphere of emerald comes crawling at her, and try as she may to withstand it, it does little good. Buffeted about like a rag doll, the heiress is ultimately floored, tumbling over and over before she ceases to roll. Down, but not out just yet, evident how, despite his laughter, the woman rises to her feet, determined.
In one last ditch effort the Blanctorche heiress charges forward, arms outstretched as she lets fire numerous points of white chi around her. But the effort was in vain; his defense is greater than her offense, the plumes of brilliant green energy consume what of her attack would otherwise land against the Frenchman.
When all is done, however, the woman sulks to her knees, clearly unable to go on. Good try, he says. Better luck next time? Again the woman snorts softly, exhaling thereafter as she gradually goes about pulling herself to her feet. When she has risen fully the Frenchwoman looks up, bruised features poised in a disappointed frown.
"Arrogance will get you nowhere, monsieur Crimson," she states coolly. He was lucky, at best, as far as she is concerned. For now, however, the fight is over, as is their dance. It was impressive show, but her patience has drawn to dangerous lows. Eyes flicker aside, dark blues peering out toward the crowd before she glances back toward the white-haired man.
"Don't underestimate me."
"Oh, I don't need to underestimate you." Ash replies with a wide grin, "Because I know your style, your weaknesses... Everything about you. And I," he rolls his shoulders in a shrug, maintaining a surprising level of confidence, "Am more than a match. The truth... is hardly arrogance, Betty." Turning his back to the noblewoman whose patience for this spectacle is clearly sinking with the passing of each moment, he looks towards the panel to await judgement. The staccatos trail off, the bows of each violin soon set to rest on the musicians' laps, and then silence blankets the ballroom. It's the type of still quiet where everyone holds their breath, all except for the two fighters involved, who are wrapped up more in this rivalry, the questions of 'why', than they are in who wins the match.
The judges, with their heads down, pass along their votes to the announcer as he walks by each station, and once he's finished counting the slips of paper, he looks up, and the microphone is brought to his lips. "An excellent display from both participants, give them a big round of applause!" And the crowd does, loudly enough that one might think they were in an arena, as opposed to a ballroom. "Though both have shown an excellent comprehension of the Tango, and displayed formitable prowess, there can only be one winner. The panel of judges, making their decision based on posture, elegance and flexibility, would like to award Mademoiselle Blanctorche with the win!" And the crowd goes wild for the underdog and Ash... applauds politely, without any sarcasm, not even in the slightest bit bothered by the verdict.
As he turns to leave, with the intentions of heading back to the main room to entertain his cooing fanbase, as well as have a good taste of the wine and hors d'ouvres, Ash passes by the heiress, and he stops briefly at her side. Smirk concealed by a lock of white hair, he whispers quietly to her, "Perhaps next time, if you really wish to discuss my reasons for leaving, you'll choose a better approach. Calling me 'Monsieur Crimson' with our history? You don't deserve a single thing from me with that attitude. Tu me peles le jonc." And then he steps into the crowd, and is immediately surrounded by chatty women, all who blabber away at him in Cantonese as he just... laughs and smiles, always the life of the party.
Thin black brows slowly knit as the Frenchman replies, lips pulled in a thin line across soft features as he claims to know everything about the noble Blanctorche heiress. Does he really? Her head turns slowly, eyes drawing to a close as she simply folds her arms beneath her bosom, assuming a casual, care-less posture. While her loss to other fighters may not sting, losing to a man she's otherwise decided as her rival.
Her rival, because since that one, fateful day he beat her.
But the past is simply shrugged off, delicate shoulders rolling idly as she stands her ground. She doesn't agree with his truth, and the likes of Ash can likely read it in the way she postures herself.
As he turns to face the panel, so too does the heiress. The crowd is largely ignored by Elisabeth; in fact, for the moment they don't exist as far as she's concerned. Instead her jaw squares, delicate features poised in that same, expressionless fashion she wears so well. She waits, though the outcome, whatever it may be, the woman won't particularly concern herself with. The announcer retrieves votes before he lifts his head and announces the verdict.
Declared winner, despite her humiliating loss, it doesn't settle well upon the woman. But to humor those around her the heiress turns, offering a flourished curtsey in her elegant gown before she stands upright, her posture formal and rigid before her gaze stirs, settling upon Ash briefly before she exhales, drawing them shut.
But what's this? He pauses by her side, and again those eyes land upon the Frenchman. She listens closely to what's said, but does not speak. Why should she? He'll take his leave as soon as he's had the last word, won't he? That's how he works. And he doesn't fail her.
"Tu es completement debile," she comments softly, exhaling in mild irritation. Really, some things don't change, even if, overall, the Frenchman seems unlike the man she once knew.
"Until next time," she then remarks, turning her back and walking the opposite way, to find the nearest exit, despite the people who try their best to scramble up to the woman to compliment the newest arrival to the SNF scene.
Log created by Elisabeth, and last modified on 08:03:50 02/25/2007.