Description: Such a wonderful city! Filled with sights, sounds, and good people! And fighters. Saint's goal in this city seems easy: find people to fight, and see just how well he matches up. Well, his first encounter is not all that much of a success... at least, from a winner's standpoint, but there are many ways in which Saint does win the day against his first opponent of all time. That oar hurts, though.
What a lovely city this was! So many sights to see, so many different cultures all cobbled together. The architecture, the style, the smells, the flavors of this city were quite wonderful! Saint had only been in town for a few days, and his time had since been spent avidly studying a map and walking about town, getting himself familiarlized with the layout of the city, all done by foot and occassionally by bus. He'd met many people on his travels, quite a few friendly enough to the strange, frail foreign man. When mentioning his interest was to meet famous fighters within the city, the inhabitants were all about talking his ear off, as where -weren't- there professional fighters in this city? He was surprised to learn a good deal of the more up-and-coming fighters were at the highschools. He was most interested in the 'just beginning' types, as he himself was one of those. Learning of this glut of fighters at the schools, Saint had made it a priority to go visit some of them, and that's where he was today. His target? Pacific High.
The day had grown long, sun lazily making its way towards the horizon. School was out, but clubs were still in session. And Saint? Well, priest or not, the groundskeepers were looking at him oddly. He stands at the entrance gate, holding his well-worn and well-marked map, glancing from it up to the school itself. "Yes, yes, this is the place! Ha ha, I got a little lost, but the people of this city! So kind!" He begins to take a step inside of the grounds, and that's when a groundskeeper calls over to him. "Hey, bud! Don't be trying nothin' now, the school's closed for the day. If you have business, try back tomorrow." Normally a man like Saint might be better received, but he just has that odd... air about him, as though something weren't right. "Ah-ha? Yes?" Saint asks, turning to the groundskeeper. "Oh, I'm very sorry! You see, I arrived here late in the day and even so I still believe your Japanese schools have 'club' activities, yes? Are any of them fighting clubs?" He begins to walk over towards the hapless man, who starts to get a little worried, Saint just yapping away at how LOVELY this school was, and how the groundskeepers must do such an excellent job, and say, how 'bout them fighter kids?
Said fighting children may indeed have clubs, but for the most part, the opinion that counts on these school grounds would have this to say; "Clubs are for fags." Closer inspection would reveal that Preston Alistair Wellington the II had tried out for several clubs, and had been unsuccessful in joining all save one.
Misadventures with the chess club led to broken knights, queens with bishops mounting them in the oddest way possible for small chess pieces, and the boards themselves often broken across the skull of an opponent after easily defeating the brutish Brit. He wasn't fond of their laughter, or so he claimed afterwards, once he was done seeing red. And an attempt at eastern chess failed abysmally, after he ate one of the pieces thinking they must be candy. It's best not to ask.
Regardless though, fighting schools have just that, fighters. And the Son of a Duke certainly counts as a fighting school kid, although with the passing of months he must be drawing ever closer to actually graduating out of this godforsaken hellhole--err, this delightful school.
As fate would have it, the tall brute is striding across the front of the property when the mysterious foreigner (which one?!) confronts the groundskeeper in search of these illustrious fighting children.
Actually wearing a shirt for a change, Preston nevertheless hasn't buttoned the damn thing up, using his long stride to eat up the distance between the dorms and the library. Across one shoulder, an oar rests, and there are books balanced against the opposing hip. He does not seem to notice the plight of the groundskeeper, who is very likely to give up Preston's identity to escape from this rather adamant stranger.
"Willy know he's a fighter, go bug him. Willy got the grass to attend to."
Preston keeps walking.
Saint seems to not be able to parse this language for just a bit. Willy knows? Willy got? Blinking, which looks damn strange considering his eyes are never seen, he turns his head over to look at the large oar-carrying individual, and then a mental cog turns. "Oh! I see! Well thank you very much for your time, sir, and please keep up your most excellent work on these grounds!" This leaves the oddly angry looking redheaded groundskeeper to mutter somthing about how he 'ate cocks like that. Turning, Saint begins to cross over to the striding oarsman, legs as long as the other man's meaning he's able to at least keep pace, if not entirely catch up to him. "Excuse me, sir! Sir! A moment of your time, if I may?" Saint calls excitedly after Preston, waving a gloved hand after the man. "You are a student of this lovely school, are you not? Yes, yes, a student - scholastic texts, and," he pauses as he notices the oar. "An oar! Yes, most suitable for rowing!" They have rowing clubs here, don't they? Sure. Yeah. "If I may impose, the kind gentleman behind me," Saint doesn't look but Willy flips him the bird at this point, "tells me you are a fighter, yes? Professional? The... ah, pardon, what is it called? Yes, yes, the Saturday Night Fight, I believe! A participant in those, as well as other, quite lovely events. Are you? I'm quite interested to know."
Whatever cocks Willy plans on eating, or hating for that matter, Preston doesn't exceptionally care. Nor does he immediately react when the stranger attempts to flag him down for 20 Questions. He keeps walking; it's what he does, after all. Those feet of his are made for walking, and that's just what they do.
But Saint proves insistent; he catches up with the Brit before said Briton can vanish into the hallowed halls of the library. With one giant, ham-sized hand on the door handle, he directs a look over his shoulder at the slightly shorter bowl-wearing Asian.
That glance quickly becomes a squint, since he sees that Saint is squinting at him to begin with. "Oooh, what the fuck was all of that? You're askin' me if I'm some kind of professional fuckin' cock fighter, is that it? Well listen here, son," he turns around, releasing the handle, bulking up to his full height as he lifts the oar off his shoulder. He waves it in front of Saint's face as he continues. "I'm not some kind of fuckin' professional fighter, that shit's not my bag, you hearin' me through those cauliflower ears of yours? I do it for the fun of it, it ain't my bloody job. Just because you Asians love to put kids to work while they're underage in sweat jobs, makin' my ridiculously oversized custom-sized school slacks, doesn't mean I'm gonna follow suit."
Preston pauses thereafter, wondering where he was going with that rant. It's been a while since he's let one fly. The pause elongates as he scratches at the side of his head. "Anyway, uh. To answer your question, no, I'm not a professional fighter." His confusion turns to mild anger; "What the fuck do you want, anyway? I've got a fuckin' exam to study for."
Saint stops short as Preston turns and launches the - well, verbal assault, really. Any other person might get offended with the racial slurs and abundance of cussing, and indeed through it, Saint says nary a word, looking a bit lost and confused. His eyebrows raise, giving off a somewhat inquisitive look, and Preston even manages to make the priest open his eyes in order to look at the oar being wagged in his face, surprised. It doesn't last though, and at the end of the rant and being questioned as to what he wants, the albino just smiles quite broadly, and says, "Actually, I'm Romanian, sir! And as to what I want, well... professional or not, I suppose I mean to ask whether you've the skill of one of that level, yes? Someone who knows how to fight, but a step or three above the common rabble. Someone who can dodge this."
What? Oh, yes, dodge this. There's a moment where Saint's eyes actually become visible, giving a clear impression of what he's about to do, and to any fighter of skill, it'd likely be an easy dodge. He lifts his cane, and without any preamble, just slaps the thing, quite sharply, at Preston's knees. The cane, though thin, is made of rather stout wood. No walking stick that, it -has- to be made for combat to survive such a blow, and undoubtedly, despite Saint's charming demeanor, is not the only thing 'hidden' about him...
COMBATSYS: Saint has started a fight here.
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Saint 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Preston has joined the fight here.
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Preston 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Saint
COMBATSYS: Saint successfully hits Preston with Heavy Strike.
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Preston 0/-------/----===|-------\-------\0 Saint
Easy dodge my ass. It's Preston's turn to look momentarily lost and confused as Saint indicates that he's actually not Asian at all, but from Romania. Wasn't that where that Goldmember guy was from, he briefly wonders to himself?
It's about then that his eyes glaze over, which proves a dangerous mistake as the encounter turns suddenly violent. 'Dodge this,' the words leave Saint's mouth, and they bring Preston's focus back to the matter at hand. Sadly for him, it proves a moment too late, as the cane slaps down remarkably hard into his kneecaps.
One dislocates. How the bloody hell else does he explain the amount of damage a simple slap to the knees does to him? "I think you just dislocated my fuckin' knee," the Brit rather calmly states, otherwise having failed to move entirely. He balances the oar carefully on his shoulder as he scratches his chin, before nodding several times to confirm it. "Yeah, you sure did."
Without further adieu, he simply changes the grip on his textbooks and slams one into the side of his leg repeatedly. While there's no audible pop of the cap returning to its place of residence, it isn't too good for its home; it goes back in. A sour grimace spreads across his face, and he lifts the offended leg, giving it a quick bend or three. "Well that wasn't very fuckin' nice," he offhandedly remarks, seemingly more interested in his knee for the moment.
That changes in a heartbeat as he drops his books, the hand stabbing forward to grip Saint by the throat. Those fingers of his are very, very strong; they aim to dig right into Saint's neck, each an iron spike, as he manifests chi in the air behind him.
Ranging to either side, a fan of blue-white energy fades into existence, dangerously floating there for a crucial pause before they stab forward, one after the other, aiming to spike this apparently Romanian man right in the face.
He's not turning water into wine, but then, Preston never claimed to be Jesus. He might just drown Saint though, if the man proves exceptionally unlucky.
And Goldmember is actually from Holland.
COMBATSYS: Preston successfully hits Saint with Cape Horn Fever.
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Preston 0/-------/--=====|=====--\-------\0 Saint
Well, if someone had taken that kind of strike and was still standing, and not howling in pain...? Saint had definitely found what he was looking for. A grin spreads across the priest's lips as the oarsman begins to pop his knee back in place, the albino's hand moving to doff his bowler cap in what looks like a very congenial apologetic movement. He manages to set the cap back on his head and then says, "I'm terribly sorry about that, quite rude of me. Very direct method of telling--" and then his throat is grabbed for. His eyes become visible for a moment, widening in surprise, but then he simply... grins? He doesn't even try to move away from the attack, his throat being grabbeb as though by an iron vice. As the water-chi forms and spike him in the face, a loud howl of pain being issued forth, the bastard still looks like he's grinning. Presumably, Preston would let him go after the spikes impact him, and the priest tumbles backwards, landing on his back in a jumbled heap.
He pants, looking quite, well, hurt. "Ha ha, my word! That was terribly painful... yet, I suppose I had it coming, did I not?" Holding the brim of his hat, he slowly, shakily, gets back to his feet. He wobbles a bit, then stabilizes himself, still panting. "My, my, it seems, though, I've come to a nice place. Beautiful school, beautiful city... and as much pain as I can handle. Ha ha, yes! I think this will do just nicely." He moves to position his cane under his arm, tucking it there for a moment, moving for all the world like he weren't in a fight, but rather simply in a normal conversation. That is, until his hand suddenly lashes out, intending not to strike, but rather to grab ahold of Preston's face. He does not squeeze, merely holds. "Allow me to repay you," Saint says, his eyes opening and staring coldly, quite unlike his usual demeanor, at the oarsman.
Should the hand connect, there's something odd that happens. Ghostly visages - four people, indistinct silhouettes that only have the barest of features, such as black eyes and mouths - suddenly appear around Preston. They reach out, silent spectres that look to grab ahold of the larger man, white-gray ghostly hands wrapping around both arms and legs. Should nothing interrupt this attack, bones begin to snap. Both arms, both legs, simultaneously shattering, causing unspeakable, grotesquely sharp pain in every limb. But then they fade, and Preston, though still feeling lingering pain through his limbs, will find that his arms and legs both work quite well.
COMBATSYS: Saint successfully hits Preston with Parade of Ghouls.
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Preston 1/-----==/=======|=------\-------\0 Saint
Indeed, after those spikes of chi slam into the opposition's face, Preston releases his victim, a definite smirk painting his features as he watches Saint fall to the ground. But that grinning, it was noted. There's a faint itch at the back of his skull that's telling the Brit something, and it's a very simple something.
You're dealing with a freak, Preston.
No shit, really, brain?
That squint of his widens a fraction, a wary look entering his eyes as the man gets back to his feet and continues the conversation as if it were happening over a nice hot pot of earl gray and a crumpet or two. "Guess it ain't so bad," the Brit responds to the talk of their surrounds, only for Saint to suddenly turn their encounter a touch too intimate for his likings. His face is held, and he doesn't flinch away in time; "What the fuck are you..."
But then it happens. And when he sees it, he shits bricks. Ok, not really, but nevertheless having four ghosts manifest to each side of him is somewhat of an oddity. He twists his head back and forth while still in Saint's grip, watching as the four lurch forward to grab onto his limbs. And then, oh, there is pain.
His head tilts back, and his mouth goes wide as he feels it happen; each limb seems to snap, the bones shattering within their fleshy tombs, the Brit left reeling from the sudden onslaught of pain. He falls backwards, head slipping out of Saint's fingertips, just short of letting out that scream of bone-breaking agony.
And his back hits the door, where he braces himself, eyes actually wide as he glances from one limb to the other. Experimentally, he rolls each wrist, a puzzled frown crossing his features as he discovers that his bones are not actually broken at all. "What the hell..." he murmurs to himself, evidently not sure what the hell just happened to him, but nevertheless still not eager to launch back into the fray and experience more of it.
So instead, he lifts the oar, keeping it between the two in an attempt to keep Saint at oars-length from him. "Hold up a second there, son; what the fuckin' hell did you just do to me?" Conniving, he uses the moment to catch his breath as well.
COMBATSYS: Preston gains composure.
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Preston 1/-------/=======|=------\-------\0 Saint
There's something even more odd about the attack - if one could even call it that. Though Preston likely doesn't notice it, Saint's own body twists a little as each bone is snapped, teeth gritting together, and snarls of pain being issued forth. Each faux snapping of the bone that the Brit goes through, seems to be felt by Saint as well, though in his case, he simply seems to -enjoy- it rather than being put off by it. The falling backwards of the man is helped by the fact that Saint himself staggers backwards, nearly falling again but not quite. He pants heavily, a gloved hand traveling to one arm and gripping it. "Ha ha ha ha ha ha!" He laughs, a bit of insanity creeping into it as it happens.
"What indeed? I don't even know myself what it is!" Saint says, eventually letting his arm go and setting the cane point-down on the ground, leaning on it a little. "I think of something that happened to me in the past, and I get to relive it, as though it were happening all over again." The Romanian seems to be in no particular hurry to return to the fight, either, not pressing a strike while Preston attempts to recover his wits. "But the most marvelous thing, my boy... is that I can make -others- experience it, too. Isn't that lovely?" Now he lifts the cane up, and steps forward, towards the oarsman, grinning widely. His grin is not a comforting one. "Yes, yes! This is a power given by God, to allow me to carry out His ideals... to spread His love." He raises the cane, leveling it directly at his opponent. "Would you care for some more?"
Regardless of the answer, Saint suddenly turns in place, striving to bring his cane back around in a very strong sweep at the back of Preston's legs, both attempting to duck under the oar while at the same time use his own weapon's reach to strike out and try to take the oarsman's support out from under him. If successful, he then sweeps his cane up and shows something interesting: it's not just a cane. A click issues forth, and the top portion of the came comes apart, revealing a long, slender blade. It's brought about in a quick flourish, then stabbed straight down into Preston's stomach, point first. While this itself is undoubtedly enough to hurt, there's another of those fake sensations that spring out - searing stabs throughout the body, through the arms, the stomach, the legs, as though being speared by dozens of hot pokers. Once Saint removes the sword a moment later, the pain fades, but still hurts a good deal.
COMBATSYS: Preston just-defends Saint's Liber Ivonis EX!
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Preston 1/-------/=======|=------\-------\0 Saint
Isn't it lovely? "Pretty fuckin' crazy if you ask me," Preston replies, still leaning against the door. It's as he pushes himself off of it that the fight ensues once more; Saint strikes low, and the cane does the impossible. It takes the Brit's legs out from under him, causing him to buckle down onto the floor.
Normally, that would seem impossible; taking Preston's legging away from him is a feat that only the greatest can do, but it's likely due to the pain that still radiates from his tortured limbs that allows Saint such leverage. But oh, things don't go quite as planned. The blade within the cane is revealed and stabbed down towards the impressively tough abdominals of the thickly muscled Briton...
And if this were a cartoon, the blade would curl into a ribbon. There's no incision, no laceration, no mark at all made despite the force exerted by both Saint and gravity. The blade fails to penetrate; only the slow blade will penetrate this shield.
The muscles of Preston stand the test of time, the blade sliding off of his perfectly chiseled, monstrously large abs. "Been doin' extra sit-ups," he explains, not that any is particularly needed. "So let me wrap my head around this," the Brit adds, spending the moment to provide exposition, "You've experienced all of this shit before? You've had all your bones broken?"
As he speaks, his hand shifts on the weapon he always carries with him.
"Man, no wonder you're so fucked up then."
Thick fingers tighten across the shaft of the oar, and with a sudden thrust of his arm he drives the weapon upwards, aiming to catch Saint right in the ribcage with enough force to lift the opponent and send the zealot for a tumble!
COMBATSYS: Preston successfully hits Saint with Bunting Tosser.
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Preston 1/------=/=======|=====--\-------\0 Saint
Saint seems fairly... surprised as his blade impacts against the muscles of the larger man, and does absolutely nothing. His eyebrows raise in wonderment at this little feat, and he lifts the sword back up, taking a step away as he puzzles over this particular event. How interesting. "Broken limbs are merely the beginning," Saint entones, though his voice is a little distracted, not quite there. He's still trying to wonder how that happened, it seems. And thus it distracts him from what is happening next. The oar is seen, but too late to do anything about it. It rams into his ribcage, and with a loud exhale of breath, the white-coated priest is sent flying, slamming down on the ground and tumbling a bit away. Even as he comes to a stop, he's cackling, laughing at the pain the move had just caused him. Slowly, he gets back up, having to stab his sword into the ground to pick up his bowler, which came off during the tumble, and settle it back on his head.
He turns, then, and looks to Preston, grinning widely. There's no snappy talk this time, and instead the priest races towards the oarsman, sword snapping out to his side. When he gets close, he suddenly twists, striking out with his sword in a broad, scything circular slash as the first part of the attack, and then, as he comes around to face his opponent once more, stabbing forward in a hard thrust for Preston's midsection again, still laughing in amusement over... something.
COMBATSYS: Preston endures Saint's Lemuria Scythe.
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Preston 1/-----==/=======|======-\-------\0 Saint
After launching Saint to give himself some room, Preston clambers back to his feet with a grumble. Once back to his full height, he sees that the opponent is quick to recover and press the attack again. Letting his books fall again, the Brit simply waits, expecting more than simply a stab to the gut -- he again tenses his abs, waiting for it, waiting, waiting...
A trickle of blood starts from the puncture wound he receives. After a moment, Preston looks down. "What, that's it?" he questions, directing that squint of his at the bowler-hat wearing anorexia sufferer.
"Son, don't tell me you're runnin' on empty already," he adds, his massive hand encircling the cane as he speaks on. "You're all about the pain, ain'tcha? I can see you're gettin' off on this. Every hit, you're barrin' up a little more, aren't ya?
"Well let me tell you, you want to feel some real pain? There's this kid over at Gedo High, goes by the name of Tenma. He uses his blood. Real sick fuck. Pretty sure he's got hepatitis.
"Yeah, I figure you'll be all over that shit, right?"
While playing matchmaker is a task normally beyond the likes of the abusive Preston, he can see a trend here; the two might just get along, plus, privately, he doesn't want to see this twisted bastard getting anywhere near his teammates. Well, sure, maybe Luc; the Kraut deserves a bit of pain and abuse from time to time.
With that, he aims to help Saint on his way over to Gedo High; with the opponent so close, he suddenly heaves a heavy snort of air through his nostrils. He starts to see red. Is that smoke coming out of his nose?
Regardless, Preston Alistair Wellington the II aims to gore Saint on his proverbial horns, slamming his shiny forehead down for a thundering impact against the faux-Priest's upper torso once more. Abuse upon abuse, that's all he offers, no doubt much to the opponent's delight.
But wait, there's more! If successful, the Brit aims to clear the debris from his horns, delivering a massive uppercut with his bare fist and incredibly large bicep alone!
COMBATSYS: Saint interrupts Bull of Barney from Preston with Heretic's Fork.
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Preston 0/-------/--=====|======-\-------\0 Saint
The comments from the Brit are simply met with another grin. Was it so shocking to have a simple stab, rather than some big, flashy effect? Well, good. Keeps people on their toes. "Tenma... at Gedo High, is it? I'll be sure to pay him a visit." But that's the only quip Saint can manage to get out, as the Wellington man decides he'll help with that endeavor. Forehead meets forehead in a collosal impact, which undoubtedly makes Saint stagger a bit. It's not like it doesn't hurt - because holy shit, /it hurts/. But Saint's just a creepy guy like that, and grins all the way through it. One strike, two, three... but then something happens. As his opponent rears back for another strike, the end of Saint's cane can suddenly be felt slamming into the underside of the other larger man's chin. But that isn't merely all, as there's indeed more of that phantom pain. It lances upwards from where the cane impacts, as though the cane itself, or some manner of spike, were being driven through the man's head, up through his brain. Undoubtedly such a feeling would stun anyone, which is where Saint takes advantage of it, grabbing for the bigger man's waist, and doing a somewhat clumsy (due to the wooziness of being headbutted thrice) hip toss, throwing the bigger man to the floor. Cackling more, Saint staggers off to the side, grinning even wider. "Ha ha ha ha! Ahh, yes, yes! If the highschool children of this city are all as wonderfully skilled as this... the pain will be exquisite!"
What an interesting twist this takes. What should be a simple maneuver for someone as physically tough and muscled as Preston turns into something else as Saint counter the maneuver. The two clash heads several times, the Brit still feeling the effect of slamming his skull into another's despite his general blockheadedness appearance. That groggy feeling turns into something else as that cane graces the underside of his chin. It brushes against stubble.
And then it feels like a railroad spike is driven clear through his cranium. Has this freak had this happen to him as well?! How the hell is he still standing?! Preston's mouth falls open as he considers a plethora of things -- and nothing at all, at the same time -- as his brain feels skewered. And certainly, Saint capitalizes.
As Preston regains his senses -- pained though they are -- he finds himself on the floor, sprawled with the oar to one side. His fingers grasp its length, eyes narrowing again as he regards the cackling madman that stands over him.
"Man, you need to see a fuckin' shrink," he comments as he once more climbs to his feet. Being tossed around like this, it's a rarity for him. And he absolutely hates it when assholes knock him off his feet.
As he rises, so too does the oar. He slashes forward, deliberately falling short -- although this freak would likely lean INTO the strike given the chance! It's the wake of the oar that Saint need concern himself with. Blue-white energy cascades out in the wake of the wooden weapon's path.
And the crescent it forms slams forward, another chi-based strike to give Saint what he wants! Paaaaaaain!
COMBATSYS: Preston successfully hits Saint with White Horses.
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Preston 0/-------/-======|=======\=====--\1 Saint
"Perhaps, perhaps!" Saint agrees wholeheartedly. A shrink has knowledge of the brain, and they might know just how the priest can transmit his memories of pain into other people. He still doesn't know himself - the whys of everything. He just does the best he can, and figures out as much as he can, through fights like this. "But I sense our time is at an end... is it no-" Indeed, Preston's already beating him to the punch. As the Romanian looks over to see what his opponent is doing at the moment, he's surprised to see the oar being slashed outwards. There is, in fact, no attempt to lean into the attack, but that's because Saint's weird and likes to simply stand around and wait for attacks to happen. Expecting the oar to be the strike, he's instead treated to a splash of crescent-shaped chi, slamming right into him. Grunting out in pain, Saint is swept off his feet by the hit, but he doesn't get knocked onto his back, but rather into a crouch that just barely manages to not be a full backwards-flying faceplant. "Ha ha ha, your... your energy is a good deal different from mine! It's quite... more painful, than my own, as surprising as that is. Well then... shall we finish this?"
Wobbling as he stands, Saint suddenly attempts to whip up his cane, and shove it directly into Preston's forehead. The strike there isn't meant to hurt, in actuality. What -is- meant to hurt, however, is the sudden emergence of what look to be either flies or mosquitos. Should that cane hit against the man's forehead, the mosquitos swarm all over his body, biting him simply everywhere. Blood is drained, siphoned from the man, drinking him dry in only seconds... or so it seems. Once the attack is finished, Saint plants the cane down into the ground, and nearly falls over again, panting. "Ahh... hmmn, well, seems my ability to fight for any much longer is... impossible," he says, words a little slow as he seems pretty much gone. "Terribly sorry... I would've cared to see more of your fighting skills."
COMBATSYS: Saint can no longer fight.
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Preston 0/-------/-======|
COMBATSYS: Preston blocks Saint's The Black Rites EX.
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Preston 0/-------/=======|
Swinging through with the strike from the oar, Preston ends up with it slanting across his shoulder as he watches the effect. It's always satisfying to him, to watch his opponent hit the dirt. In this case, it's a crouch; but hey, still rewarding to him. If there's one thing he loves, it's to manhandle his opposition, to really use his brawn and physical superiority to essentially make the opponent his bitch.
But it seems the bell has tolled for Saint. The final strike comes, the cane dashing forward to strike square against the forearm of the Brit as he blocks the strike. Regardless though, those mosquitoes manifest, and they surround his arm, draining it until it seems like a sheer husk to Preston.
And the Brit, he watches in fascination as this happens before his very eyes, the pain sublime but easily dealt with after the rest of what Saint has delivered to him thus far. "That's just fucked up," he summarizes the case, giving his arm a shake as Saint nearly succumbs to unconsciousness.
Admiring his muscles, now properly back in their normal shape to his clear hazel eyes, he gives Saint a rough push to topple the man over. "Stay the fuck away from me. Go bug Tenma, ya hear me?" he tells the faux-Priest, towering over him as he waves his oar in the man's face one more time. It's a warning he wants to drive home. He doesn't want to see this guy around the school again.
With that though, he collects his books, and heads into the library. There's still studying to be done!
Log created on 22:50:03 03/21/2008 by Saint, and last modified on 03:39:04 03/22/2008.