Description: Preston 'ate Cherise! Or in this case, Cherise eats Preston! After the involvement of Cherise as a Chaos Agent, Preston is less than impressed -- and presses for a fight! Will a cheese-eating surrender monkey win?! Find out!
Days. Hours. Possibly minutes, even.
It's been a short while since the fight here in Japan, that catastrophic edition of Saturday Night Fight that caused the waters of the gorgeous gardens in the countryside to be blasted all over, where she met the British boy and the burly American football player with express instructions to show the pair 'no mercy.'
And no mercy, she did show.
But what is she doing, here, now? The strange Cherise Bouchard is here at the prestigeous international school for some strange reason-- not that having strange reasons ever stopped her from doing anything. Deciding to partake of the school's lavish dining hall at this hour, she seems to have taken on an entirely new wardrobe to blend in with the others here: The blue blazer, the pristine white shirt and the decorative ribbon accent around her neck, wearing proper shoes and stockings-- and a skirt dangerously shorter than the standard issue.
Sitting crosslegged and with her chair cocked out to the side, the warm croissant and the cup of tea sitting on the table next to her are half-eaten and half-drank, instead engaged with one or two of the other students in what seems to be harmless conversation. Who is she? Cherise, of course. Where is she from? France. 'Bouchard,' as in the wine label? Of course.
Oh, schools. The things she missed out on.
It isn't exactly difficult for Preston Alistair Wellington the II to be in attendance AT HIS OWN SCHOOL. Strange though, that he's actually AT HIS OWN SCHOOL. Do you see where this is going?
While the Frenchwoman may be happy to simply sit and chat away with her newfound friends, it would seem that someone has her in his crosshairs. All of a sudden, a heavy boot slams into the edge of the table, jostling any and all teacups. There, standing with an open shirt and an oar across his shoulders, stands the burly Brit that Cherise encountered just the other day.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you're a little too old to be hangin' around with kids this age, now ain'tcha?"
Leaning in close, Preston is at his best, squinting down at Cherise with a certain aggressiveness that only a man of the imposing physical stature he possesses can muster. The bare chest on display seems a little slick still, and the boy smells fresh from the shower; did someone actually TELL him that the Frenchwoman was on the scene?
Whatever the case, he's here now!
The teacup jostles, the liquid inside giving an impact tremor and drawing all the attention of those seated at that table-- and most beyond, too. Was that a T-Rex? Are people fairly alarmed, and is there a mathematician in the back of a Jeep? No, of course not! Some people scoff, some people groan, and a few others look giddy. How often do they get a chance to chant things like, 'Fight! Fight! Fight!' around here, anyway?
Don't answer that.
So, Cherise looks up at the damp man with a somewhat unimpressed stare, regarding him with a calmness that she probably shouldn't have at a moment like this. No, it's much like that time in the sports bar-- the wide eyes, the corners of her mouth quirking up and giving her a fierce smile. "But I am only nineteen. Schools do, you realize, occasionally hold people beyond their senior year in order to have them have a year to study abroad."
And then she gives him a pointed stare, although the arrogance and disdain never once leave her accented voice. "Or did I kill too many brain cells when I strangled you like that, hmm?"
The response brings a vicious looking smirk to the face of the tall Brit. From the look in his eyes, he's already starting to see red thanks to this little girl, and her actions are hastening the blood haze.
"You know precisely what I fuckin' well mean," Preston responds to that smile, shifting the oar across his shoulders as if to remind her of its presence, and the pain it can inflict. While some of his colleagues may groan at the sight of him, he's nevertheless impressive. And not as annoying as some of his teammates, certainly. "However much of a retard you might be, you're not enrolled here, last I checked.
"Or have you finally decided to try and get yourself past the ninth grade? I imagine that's when you dropped out." With a sudden laugh, he looks away. "I'd make a joke about surrenderin', but that'd just be too obvious, now wouldn't it?"
Who is he talking to just then?
Looking back at the seated Frenchwoman, he leans in just a little bit closer. "So why don't you tell me why you're really gracin' us with your fuckin' presence? I hope you ain't developin' no crush on me, luv, 'cause I sure as hell just ain't interested."
"I see, so then you have checked? You have looked in on me before? While I must say that I do appreciate your concern, Mister Wellington, I must admit that you really are not my type. You should perhaps stop leering at me and concentrate on your studies. Besides, was it not you who submitted to me, the other day?"
And then she yawns into the back of her hand, pretending to be tired of what's being said to her. So when he leans in, her elbows lean against the arms of the seat, bracelets settling around her wrists and her scarred fingertips steepling together.
"But, all of your stalker-like tendancies set aside, you are a minor surprise in what is supposed to be a regular visit. I was hoping to, in fact, meet with another student here. I have made such friends since coming to this country, I tell you! I have not had the chance to speak to her much lately with the amount of travelling I have had to do..."
But then her expression, steadily declining into a sadder face, brightens. "Ah! That is it. Perhaps you know where I can find her! Her name is Marisol O'Connell."
Whatever Preston may or may not have checked, he seems to have gotten it into his mind that having this vindictive little so-and-so on school grounds is definitely not a good idea. He's about to respond, several times in fact, as the seated girl replies to him. But ultimately, it's the name that leaves Cherise's lips that sparks the boy into action.
Immediately, the Brit's eyes narrow into a squint. "You're friends with Marisol? Why do I doubt that, somehow?" But part of him internally warns himself, waving red flags that it isn't best to continue down this topic of conversation.
Suddenly at a loss for anything else to say, he instead twirls the oar, rolling it across his muscular shoulder to allow the blade to spin. And then Preston lets his mind wander; he's standing there, poised with one leg on the edge of a table, leaning in towards Cherise. He opts to put his leg down. "Anyway, uh," he begins, scratching at the back of his head. "She's probably out training with her grandpa or somethin'. Why, you want to choke her out or somethin'? I was kind of hopin' I'd get a chance to knock some sense into you."
"Why?"
Cherise looks genuinely curious at the way he reacts, the narrowing of the eyes and the clear-as-day-- to her-- shift in his attitude. Is his pulse quickening? His pupils dilating? Does he like the friend she's met the scant few times she's shown herself on this campus under the guise of a student?
But then her smile twists into something wholly -wrong-, her eyes widening up just a bit. Instead of staying seated back, she leans -forward-, toward the man twice the size she is in various dimensions. "Is that -so-," she says, about ready to burst out laughing.
And then she stands, throwing her arms out to the sides in a most inviting gesture.
"Please. Try it."
Whatever Preston's intentions, it seems he's not going to be drawn on the subject any further! In fact, when Cherise turns curious and prompts for more information, the Brit clams right on up. Just like a clam. Right up.
But the conversation takes a twist when, without further conversational direction, the Brit prompts for a fight. Thus, the seated woman leads forward and... indeed, she asks for it.
Eyeing her for a moment, Preston slowly unshoulders his oar, taking it from his broad shoulders with a simple shrug. It's a long practiced move, the roll of his muscles enough to bounce the weapon up and off.
And with it up in the air, his grip suddenly tightens. "Alright then," he replies, thundering the oar down to crash onto the Frenchwoman's shoulders.
COMBATSYS: Preston has started a fight here.
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Preston 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Cherise has joined the fight here.
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Preston 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Cherise
COMBATSYS: Cherise blocks Preston's Medium Strike.
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Preston 0/-------/-------|=------\-------\0 Cherise
Even if Preston clams up that tightly, she's already moved on to the more interesting part of the conversation. The part about how he's going to smack 'some sense' into her. That part still interested her beyond all realms of belief.
So when the oar goes up, she knows what's coming. With the proximity of the Brit in front of her and the chair behind her, the table to her left, even, Cherise finds herself in the proverbial pickle. Only to the right is her exit open and free, but she doesn't even get to move -that- far, what with the great big wooden shaft trying to smack her.
Her hands raise into the air, spread, and then -clap- onto the flat of the oar to stop it dead-- or at least, keep it from breaking her collarbone with the strike. Cherise grunts, but grins-- and shoves it to the side, stepping in to what may as well be absolute "zero range."
"Ahn~! You'll have to try a little harder than that~!"
And then she starts to strike-- powerfully, even, thrusting a palm forward to lance into his abdomen. If it impacts, he'll notice something distinct about it-- a sharp, knife-like stab into his belly with that violating, -wrong- force.
But stopping there would be right well -silly-.
She continues from there, striking at his sides, throwing two quick punches at either thigh-- and then to end this, she steps back onto her chair and hops at Preston, fingers rigid, and tries to 'stab' him in the throat with that offending hand... and transmit one last painful burst through his neck.
"Ha ha ha ha~!"
COMBATSYS: Cherise successfully hits Preston with Vital Striker.
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Preston 0/-------/---====|===----\-------\0 Cherise
It would seem that the Brit will indeed need to try harder, as it becomes readily apparent that Cherise isn't messing around. While the burly mountain of man meat may be warming up, the Frenchwoman cuts right to the chase after shrugging aside the oar.
But it seems that he's placed himself into the proverbial pickle, overextending himself with the first strike that seemingly is so easily swept aside. The lancing blows that rain onto Preston are quite painful, each eliciting a grunt from the mountain although in truth he fails to be thoroughly moved.
The final strike into his throat really sets his neck all a-tingle. For the second time in as many days, he's left with every part of his body momentarily numb, and it's not a sensation he particularly favors.
Turning his head to the side, Preston blows smoke out. While he's definitely feeling pain, and there's the fine signs of it to judge by the crinkle at the corner of his eyes... it's just going to take more than that to make him step down, not when he's the one who's waved the red flag. But he's the bull here, and he's got the supposed matador square in his sights. "Cute. You've gotten stronger, haven't you? Picked that up yesterday. Let's see how strong, huh?"
Lifting the oar, he glances at it for a moment. And then, he performs the ultimate mix-up; he thunders his other arm through, a sudden clothesline aimed to send the Frenchwoman right back for the table and her tea the old fashioned way; he hit her pretty hard there, Rick!
COMBATSYS: Preston successfully hits Cherise with Running Rigging.
- Power hit! -
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Preston 0/-------/--=====|======-\-------\0 Cherise
"Have I?"
When she lands, it's light on her feet, the heels of her shoes clicking against the ground while she takes a good step back-- but not a step far enough. Whence he blows smoke out of his ass-- err, mouth-- Cherise's brow creases. Never before has she seen an effect like that after a strike to the throat, but ... then again, this example of British tomfoolery has proven time and again to be a whole lot more than she can usually immediately anticipate.
Taken as the young man steps in and -rails- her with an incredible clothesline, sending her arcing backward with an angry bone-popping crack and landing upon the Pacific High table straight on her back. She gasps for air with relatively surprised eyes, though her mouth seems to unconsciously, continually bend into that queer smile.
So, let's review: Preston is still dripping wet from a supposed shower, and now he's got an invading French girl in a miniskirt on her back in front of everyone.
Average day, right?
Cherise's knees draw together and her arms curl behind her head. With an impressive display of coordination and muscle control, her legs kick straight up and her hands push off, doing a rather acrobatic roll-into-a-handspring recovery back onto the table proper. "Oh, you -are- good."
Cherise kicks off her shoes one after the other with a flick of her feet, the weight and build distracting-- nothing suits her better than her favorite boots. Taking a light step before springing, she twists hard in a circle before lashing out with her left leg. She tries to plant her foot painfully into the middle of his chest before using him as a break point, literally changing directions to bring her right leg across the side of his head!
COMBATSYS: Preston endures Cherise's Heavy Kick.
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Preston 0/-------/=======|=======\-------\0 Cherise
An average day for the British powerhouse, indeed! Despite his best intentions, when Cherise is so thoroughly exposed upon the top of the table, the boy's eyes can't help but wander. Ahh, to be young, and in lo--wait, wait. Disregard that part.
Nevertheless, after getting a healthy look at what's on offer, the Brit finds himself having to turn on the slight offensive. Her heel presses into the center of his chest, and she follows it up with a neat crack across the side of his lightly fuzzy head! But Preston seems to anticipate it; he's already leaning away, and as the strike hits, his oar is rising.
Going back with the blow, he slides away, a fast grin appearing on his face. That stung, sure; but he's made of meat, after all. "I don't toot my own horn, but thanks for the compliment. Now stop acting so shit and do something worthwhile, huh?"
Always antagonizing his opponents, Preston heaves that oar of his up high -- and SLAMS it down into the very ground of the cafeteria, ripping into the floor. Twisting his grip on the shaft, he slams forward, sending a physical wave of floor tiles and concrete hurtling for Cherise, intent on toppling both her and the table!
COMBATSYS: Cherise blocks Preston's Devil Seam.
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Preston 1/-------/=======|=======\-------\1 Cherise
To be young and a wealthy aristocrat with hormones?
But the silver-haired girl seems intent on not staying down for long, what with her sudden and acrobatic kick. Preston weathers it well-- perhaps too well, as noted when he takes the kick across the face better than she had initially anticipated. Cherise's eyes thin with this new development, still turning in the air with the force of her kick.
When the oar swings up and slams into the ground, she looks curious. When the ground itself -ripples- at her, she looks more worried than anything. This was different. This was ... new. Twisting while still in the air, still horizontal, Cherise tries to fall like she were attempting a martial artist's break-fall-- reaching down to slam her hand against the ground, a charge of silver energy jolts up her arm from the heel of her hand, her body rolling against the ripple somewhat smoothly... though still being thrown by the force, bowling over a few chairs and students alike.
Using some poor sophomore as her stepping stone, Cherise immediately retaliates. Sprinting ahead, the air hisses and she tries to blaze right past Preston-- and a length of wire tries to clamp down and pull his arm out straight.
Straight-- so the French girl can lunge back in with her palm presented. If her hand can come into contact with his ribs, a burst of silver explodes out from it to free him of the wire... and, if she's lucky, the confines of gravity.
COMBATSYS: Cherise successfully hits Preston with Argent Striker.
- Power hit! -
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Preston 1/---====/=======|=======\-------\0 Cherise
It's a lot like bowling. Only the ball is made out of the very ground they both step upon, and the pins are chairs and students. "Definitely not a strike," the Brit grouses under his breath, apparently just aware enough of how to bowl to make the reference. Or perhaps it's thanks to that 'activity night' that Marisol came up with, that ended with way too many ball-sized holes in a wall and a fairly large bill to be paid to the alley. Along with bans for life.
It was a dark day in Pacific History.
Regardless though, Preston shakes off the disgust he feels at his strike not being fast enough and concentrates on the matter at hand. Like some kind of gravitational slingshot, a wire affixes to his wrist and the girl enters an arc, swinging in to strike him square in the ribs. The energy slams forth, and the Brit is sent tumbling backwards, end over end, his ribs giving a heavy creak under the force of impact!
Rolling to a halt, Preston slides into a three-point stance, grinning for a moment before he spits a heavy mouthful of blood to one side. A non-descript tanned man who owns a hot air balloon makes a note to gather the precious DNA once the fight is over. Unaware, the Brit laughs; "Nice. That's clever."
Shaking his wrist once, he drags his right boot back across the cafeteria floor -- and then pushes off, a surprising burst of speed leaving Preston as a fast-charging wall of meat and pain and ra--ok just pain and meat. He takes to the air, spinning neatly as he does so, that dangerous oar of his fanning out to the side with the blade held flat. It slices through the air, resistance kept to a minimum in favor of generating as much speed and as much force as he can muster.
Landing just a step in front of Cherise, he completes his revolution and aims to shatter her resistance, if not her chin. The oar snaps out, the broad expanse of the blade offered as he delivers a thundering, guttural roar of rage as he exerts himself. Preston has become one with the oar. The oar wishes to displace Cherise at a right angle, into the nearest wall if not simply through it.
She might just need a life preserver!
Preston 'ate Cherise!!
COMBATSYS: Cherise dodges Preston's Man Overboard!.
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Preston 0/-------/-------|=======\-------\0 Cherise
That was nice, it was clever. Her response is professional, well-thought out, and organized. A response like that can fit into numerous situations and have all kinds of uses! Uses like the one she gives now to show her great amusement: "Heh heh heh, ha ha ha ha~!"
Cherise's arm whips back in a smooth circle with the wire intent on returning to the owner. She even smiles, politely rather than insanely, and then notes their relative proximity to each other. He's out of the normal concept of reach, but then... so is she. He's moving towards her suddenly, he's screaming loudly. Preston is one with the oar.
The oar is not one with Cherise.
It becomes noticable through her eyes, like her blue irises constrict tightly and fall into her pupils, the color overtaken with a smooth wash of silver. Were it darker or an alleyway, it would probably be a little scary to some.
And then her legs spread wide, her body dropping low and leaning hard off to the right side. Her chest drops below her knee, and her arms extend in a smooth way. The pose would almost look like it was stolen from a martial arts flick if it wasn't so sudden and fluid-- punctuated by Cherise's sudden retort. Her right palm turns upwards while she draws her extended left leg in, standing up straight and tall. Tall... and whipping that hand up.
Paper thin blades of silver energy whip off her hand in this awkward pose and awkward moment, fully intent on trying to rip into Preston's exposed overswing and deal him a harsh, telling blow-- as those blades of energy seek not only to jolt him with the force, but literally rip through his clothes and try to bite into his body.
"Ha ha ha ha!"
COMBATSYS: Cherise successfully hits Preston with Argent Claw.
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Preston 0/-------/----===|=======\-------\1 Cherise
Now that is definitely unexpected. People are not meant to AVOID being hit by the oar! It just... isn't right! Thus, Cherise has added herself to a list of people who will inevitably be curbstomped rather brutally by the Brit. Today may not be that day, however.
Swinging through to hit little but air, Preston cannot help but feel the lack of an earth-shattering kaboom. He stumbles, hopping on one foot, and there's little he can do as retaliation proves swift and like something out of the upcoming Dragonball movie. Cherise twists, flesh made fluid motion as the blades discharge. They slice and slice true; an attempt to bring the oar down to catch half the silvery energy falls short. Instead, his open shirt is torn on one side, the blades digging into the heavy band of muscles beneath.
Grunting, the Brit is left with little recourse but to turn away, extending it into a leap and roll that puts a bit of distance between the two. Having what should have been his ultimate attack thwarted so skillfully--if indeed that was skill and not 'hacks'--is more than just disconcerting for Preston. It's outright disappointing, and only the adrenalin that courses through his veins keeps him from feeling despondent by the lack of that kaboom.
Well, that and he's now incredibly pissed off. He can worry about his training and if he's losing his edge afterwards; for now, he really just wants to take a breath and regain some focus. "Yeah, I think I can do without the laughter," he grouses quietly to himself, cracking his neck noisily as he waits to see what Cherise has for him next.
COMBATSYS: Preston gains composure.
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Preston 0/-------/-----==|=======\-------\1 Cherise
What's the logic of a masochist being so agile, so prone to avoid taking damage? What is it that keeps her from just standing there and taking the hits? Why doesn't she just accept what comes while doling out what she can?
Because she likes to make people work for it.
So with Preston now rightfully enraged by the blades of energy and her agility, Cherise watches as he stops for that moment, biding his time. Her response is a little more showy than that, a length of her silver wire twirling out and swishing gently through the air in circles. Her wrist flicks, her eyes narrow. Though her attention is on Preston, the wire continues to move at her beck and whim, bending and contorting like she were some sort of master of ropes and trickery.
Her laughter dies down, perhaps to Preston's relief, but her smile persists. "What is the matter? I cannot have you running off crying or standing there like some sort of ignorant twat."
"You were going to teach me a lesson!" she exclaims, a knifing viciousness in her voice. "So?! Get off your ass and do something already!"
COMBATSYS: Cherise focuses on her next action.
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Preston 0/-------/-----==|=======\-------\1 Cherise
What logic comes into play this far into what's been a somewhat devastating fight for both involved? Any good plan changes the moment the first shot is fired, and these two have fired enough shots already.
But biding his time, Preston squints at the Frenchwoman as she turns vulgar. It's almost like staring into bizarroland, because this girl is using the kind of leans he himself normally would. It's annoying. It's really pissing him off. So much so, in fact, that he opens his mouth to release a tirade;
"Just because you're gettin' lucky this time doesn't mean shit. Watch who you're talkin' to. You must not remember the absolute shellacking I gave you last time. It wasn't even a fuckin' contest. You had to have some squinty-eyed bitch step in just to avoid it bein' a total fuckin' whitewash, remember?
"So don't be gettin' all fuckin' uppity just because you're havin' a twist of fate, y'hear me?"
As if to add emphasis to his words, the Brit seizes the closest object he can; a chair. There's no fanfare as he simply swings it through, his impressive physique bulging as he sends it spinning like a disc from the movie Tron, minus the impressive orange glow! It does, however, have four legs.
Yes that's an important fact.
COMBATSYS: Preston successfully hits Cherise with Thrown Object.
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Preston 0/-------/-----==|=======\=------\1 Cherise
The chair screams through the air, fluttering like a twisted frisbee of ultimate death. There's something poetic about it, about how it flies with the strength and power used by the British man. Cherise tries to avoid, she tries to dive to the side-- and for all her efforts, she catches the chair across the ribs and has her momentum cut off harshly-- and then hits the floor laughing.
"Oh, you boys."
Putting her arm down, she twists at the hips and throws her weight to the side, getting up into a squat.
And then she springs.
She moves a whole lot faster than she did before, thrusting out with her right hand.
If she strikes, a sharp spike of silver energy bursts through, into Preston. Twisting hard, her right leg whips up to crack him with an energy-laced roundhouse kick-- but then her leg whips straight back the other way for a matching heel kick, with her leg chambering up in a pose much like Shihong's own. Her foot thrusts out to deliver one more harsh, angry kick to the stomach before her hand twists around and her palm thrusts out, trying to strike the Brit over the heart with one last jolt.
"Go sit down!"
COMBATSYS: Cherise successfully hits Preston with Argent Rebellion.
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Preston 1/-------/=======|-------\-------\0 Cherise
Indeed, there's no real 'if' about it. Despite Preston's best efforts to ensure that Cherise won't be able to strike him -- or at the very least, that he'll be able to get his defenses up in time -- she pierces right through them with that spike of power. The combo begins with gusto, the roundhouse kick leading into a heel kick, a foot to the belly culminating with a shot to the heart.
Reeling backwards, the Brit's arms pinwheel as he finds himself hitting his limit; he can feel that the blows have taken their toll, and that he won't be able to do much more than have one final, bittersweet attempt to knock this bitch down a few pegs.
His eyes momentarily lose focus, but they snap back to stare down at the girl as he ceases his backwards motion. His boot slides, for he is indeed running on empty at this stage. Is that a grin on his face? It isn't bound to last, considering how entirely unimpressed he is with himself right now.
"Don't fancy sittin' by myself right now," Preston retorts, slamming his foot down as he twists, pivoting forward to strike in the most linear, straight-forward manner he can muster. It's that oar of his, whistling through his fingertips as it extends to full range, intent on crushing square into Cherise's chest and knocking her flat onto her ass!
COMBATSYS: Preston can no longer fight.
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Cherise 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Cherise blocks Preston's Bunting Tosser.
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Cherise 0/-------/------=|
With each strike, she can feel it-- feel the transmission of the impact, feel the muscle tightening or spasming under her touch and the touch of her powers, his strength waning with each blow. But she underestimates Preston's tenacity.
Looking surprised once again, the oar whistling through the air meets not the French girl's chest, but her forearms. The impact is still strong and hearty, that's not to be argued with. Her shoeless feet even leave the ground with the impact, driving her back through the air-- but rather than splattering across the room, she lands on her feet. Her forearms -hurt-.
But she pulls a length of hair behind her ear, gesturing towards the chair in earnest. "Please. Sit. Or else I'm going to have to rip your leg out of the socket and beat you with it."
COMBATSYS: Cherise takes no action.
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Cherise 0/-------/------=|
After that final strike, the oar settles down against the floor. Heaving a breath, Preston seems to finally be willing to listen. Although rather than sit down on a chair, he just leans against the oar instead, lifting it close enough to prop it under his arm, somewhat. It's still nearly half again as big as he is.
"Yeah, I'll sit a bit later," the Brit replies, sucking in a mouthful of delicious air before he waves a hand dismissively. "Well, guess I'll have to hit some sense into you another time. I really gotta stop getting' into these fights right after trainin', I swear to god..." The last is muttered to himself, perhaps an excuse to make up for such a poor showing. He shakes his head though. It just doesn't seem to sit well with him. Clearly, this girl has gotten stronger, while he's still where he was six months ago.
"Anyway, go fuck around with Marisol if that's what you're here for. I think I need another shower."
Lifting the oar back onto his shoulders, it seems Preston will make his exit, stage left!
Log created on 20:52:43 04/28/2008 by Preston, and last modified on 21:02:40 04/29/2008.