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Post by Solomon Moon on May 26, 2016 0:48:41 GMT
"Please be advised: Sign ins for registered combatants will commence shortly. Participants are reminded to visit the events counter for certification and accommodation assignments. Welcome to Amity, please enjoy your stay." A disembodied female voice blared over the PA system, briefly drowning out the near constant buzzing of hundreds all talking at once as they crowded the antechamber from one wall to the next in a completely unbroken sea of humanity.
It was an antechamber in name alone, as where the term might have suggested something small, the lobby was only such in that it was less immense than the rest of the structure for which it served an entryway, but as it was, even had the distance not been packed with a murmuring tide of people, crossing from one side to the next could take as long as ten minutes on foot. The sheer size and spectacle of even this, the least of the stadium's public spaces, was a handy reflection of the overall scope of the soon to be proceedings, an omen of the coming tournament which would bring the best and brightest of many nations together beneath one colossal roof.
From the marble floor, polished to a sheen as reflective as the finest silver, made of unbroken slabs that had been hewn from quarries in spans that were as large as thirty feet across in some places, to the neo-gothic reform of the architecture which saw every window, doorway, and support beam decorated in designs as elaborate as micro-circuit boards, from materials the shone with the golds and silvers and whites of precious metals, to the surveillance, communications, and video systems which were as much a part of the overall design as anything else, and in many cases represented the absolute pinnacle of technology for it's respective field, everything seemed to boldly declare itself as the state-of-the art, or simply represent the highest aspirations of Remnant's peoples. In times long gone, it would only have been the rulers of the wealthiest nations who would even dare to construct something so decadent and breathtaking. It was as much a throne room as it was a temple to the achievement of civilization, and only colored a thin shade for irony by the twenty foot tall flat-panel monitors, that would soon be displaying the particulars of notable participants, currently serving no other purpose but to silently announce the latest trend in iScroll technology or some other similar advertisements that were every bit as much on a loop as that announcement that played every ten minutes and urged combatants to sign themselves in.
It was only missing one thing thus far, and that was the arrival of participants, who they themselves were every bit the cream of the crop, state-of-the-art, best and brightest as that noble concept to which this magnificent artifice had been erected. Only time would tell what manner of sions would pass through those gates which laid open like the open golden-gilded arms of destiny itself. History was waiting to be written and one had only to pick up the pen.
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Post by Hyght Briggs on May 29, 2016 18:50:21 GMT
Aboard the descending air ship Hyght sat outside, on the observation deck, his body trembled with that nervous excitement the unknown future brought. Without the hardened bulkhead to curb off the wind Hyght felt every inch of morning chill. They were still high enough that he could almost touch the low hanging clouds, if he would only reach up. The icy lips of the wind were amplified by those same puffs of crystalline water that drifted through the sky. All around him students were talking of their excitement for the event and their hope for a strong, but not too strong, opponent. They all wished to win their matches and bring honor and recognition to themselves and to Syne. Hyght supposed he too might have felt like that had he not been so new to fighting. Despite himself and his excitement, the young baker found himself wondering how his parents and siblings were back home. He hadn't talked to them since he left home and that had been a few months now. He hoped they were well.
"All students be advised we will be landing soon." A young man's voice said through the intercom. "Prepare for landing and make sure you're items are with you. Please, don't leave your weapons or Dust lying about. I'm sure you'll feel rather silly going into a fight without them. We'll be arriving in fifteen minutes."
White knuckles filled Hyght's view as he leaned his forehead against them. Calm down. Calm down. It'll be fine. You'll be fine. He mentally repeated to himself. After five minutes Hyght managed to release his death grip on his own hands and take stock of his gear as they landed.
Some time after they landed and vacated the air ship, Hyght found himself in awe of the structures that laid before him. Such designs had to have taken years to build and more money than he'd ever see in ten lifetimes. He wondered how the interior looked if the exterior was this magnificent. Many of the students wasted little time in admiration and took off in a sprint for the designated area, an apparent antechamber inside the building Hyght was ogling. They're journey took less than a quarter hour and the young baker found himself awes struck with the craftsmanship of the interior; polished marble, neo-gothic architecture, the little intricate designs etched into the various odds and ends that accented the majesty of the chamber.
"Whoa..." Hyght absently said aloud as he ran his fingertips over the etches and engraved pieces. "I can't imagine how long it took to do this. This place is amazing." He mused and continued to scan the room until his eyes rested on the large monitor panels. A short burst of air escaped Hyght's nostrils and he shook his head. He figured the reason for the large monitors were for the fights and showing whatever they needed to see, or perhaps highlights of difference battles the judges though important and amazing enough to share. Though he understood, Hyght couldn't help but shake his head a slight in the contrast between the sleekly polished and well constructed structure they stood in and the towering electronics that seemed to clash with it.
With a wish to not gaze at the large monitor panels Hyght turned and began scanning the crowd, both his Academy and the other had already begun mingling. Hyght felt that he might be loosing his sociable touch as he was still by himself in a sea of people. With a shift of his shoulders he felt his simple round shield tap against his back and tapped his left hand to his right hip, where his gladius-styled short sword was. Hyght wasn't much to look at, his rotund physique, simple gear, and no armor would no doubt mark him as a rookie, he knew but accepted that as that was exactly what he was. With a humph of annoyance at himself he slid his fingers through his black hair. "Time to cut the rug, eh." He thought aloud before turning in another direction and walking into the ocean of bodies.
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Post by Josh Sanguine on May 31, 2016 19:45:07 GMT
As the airship landed in front of the massive entryway, Josh sat back and watched as the other students piled into the doorway, rushing to get a glimpse of whatever was inside. He slowly checked his bag, making sure he had everything he needed. Knife, check. Armored jacket, check. Various food and drink, check. He slowly went through everything and reorganized. He couldn't understand why everyone wanted to get inside as soon as possible. They still had plenty of time left to socialize, and rushing would only make the process run less efficiently.
Josh walked out of the airship and looked at the massive building looming above him. Sure, it was cool and all, but why was everyone else so enraptured by its beauty? After all, beauty wasn't its primary purpose. As he walked into the antechamber, he noticed the same thing. People were admiring the intricate designs, the polished marble floor, the shiny and expensive materials used in the construction. Why had the metals been used? Wouldn't it have been more efficient to use cheap, durable alloys?
He knew most onlookers would mistake his quiet, serious observation of everything for boredom. It was actually quite the opposite. He was excited to face any challenger that would come his way, and scared of failure. He was nearly bursting with excitement! Why couldn't the tournament start sooner?! But he knew he had to remain calm and collected. Anything else would be a sign of weakness. So he decided to keep his calm exterior by analyzing everything, by pointing out flaws and trying to get all the necessary things done with. With a sigh, he started walking to the events counter. He might as well sign in to the tournament, since that was what he came here to do.
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Post by Sky Richardson on Jun 1, 2016 19:46:10 GMT
Sky stood at the bow of the ship, his usual slouch forgotten in his excitement. The wind ran tendrils through his hair, sending it this way and that. The young man held onto the rail loosely with his left hand, while his right hung by his side, a pale blue spark the color of the sky dancing across his fingertips as he stared into the wind, at the school where the tournament was to be held, trying to peer into the future of the tournament itself. There was no fear in his heart, no nervousness, just an excited readiness as he contemplated the battles to come. Who would he face? Would his Soul, his training be enough to overcome theirs? He smiled fiercely into the wind as he tossed the question back into the air whence it had came. He would give it his All, and that would be enough or it wouldn't.
At this point, the young mans stomach growled and he looked at it with feigned surprise. He let the energy drop from his fingers , feeling it dissipate back into nothingness as he turned away from the railing and went in search of the airships refreshments stand. With a ship full of energetic Huntsmen, there was sure to be at least a token setting. Within minutes, his stomach, aided by his nose had led him to the refreshments stand. He grabbed a small bowl of oatmeal, dropped in a swirl of peanut butter and a pinch of cinnamon, as well as a banana and a glass of orange juice. He went back out onto the deck and ate this light meal slowly and carefully, far removed from his usual method of inhalation, wary of the cramps eating too fast before intensive exercise could cause.
He had just finished his meal and placed the debris into a receptacle, when the ships announcement buzzed, the pilot telling them that they were landing. While most of the students shuffled inwards, where the doors were waiting, Sky simply leapt up onto the railing, and down onto the ships side. He leapt out over the crowd, and created a small ball of electrical energy under his feet, just big enough for it to push his metal boot off of it into another jump. He grabbed one of the light fixtures and clambered up without a care for who was watching, and only then did the young man take a second to really look at his surroundings. And man, was he unimpressed. Technology was all well and fine, but this... this was worse than useless, this was outright Wasteful. As this thought struck him his lips curled into a snarl. He wondered just how much of an electrical surge it would take to shut this place down. As pleasant as that thought was, he would most certainly be kicked out of the tournament for such an infraction, possibly even expelled from Syne for making such a grievance. He grimaced and turned up his headphones to drown out the chatter from below, before leaping down from the light fixture, using another ball to fully clear the crowd, placing him in front of the events counter. He waited his turn in line, contenting himself watching his fellow students and wondering which his opponent should be. Signing in when it was his turn, he would find a nice spot on the wall to lean up against and crowdwatch.
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Post by Solomon Moon on Jun 2, 2016 4:21:02 GMT
As the contestants began offloading, so as well civilians and other spectators, people of every shape and size and as varied in background as the soon to be participants were surging towards the primary structure. One group however seemed to stick out, unified against the clashing colors and forms of a hundred different fashions and a hundred different cultures, by both a singular purpose and a dedication to a single shade, that being a deep, obscene red, that they wore from head to foot. At their sides dangling from hands in scarlet gloves, were folded picket signs, and beneath a dozen some odd red bandanas covering somber brows, glared tired and menacing eyes. The curious procession set itself up near the massive double doors which served as the lobby's entryway, and with determined gazes they scanned every face that passed by, seemingly inert for now, but only as much so as a candle balanced on a stack of firedust, faces old and young, united by the same grim attention in their eyes, united in purpose, ready and waiting.
A kilometer away, the interior of the bullhead's cabin hummed and moaned, as sixteen dust pistons thrummed like the beating heart of some colossal metal beast, functional bucket seats rattling as the the armor and equipment of the occupants struck a dissonant chorus against the hard plastic. The cab was entirely designed to favor function over form, with sleek black panels covering the windowless walls, bolts exposed to facilitate easy replacement, and the aforementioned bucket seats, a dozen of which lining each wall, bereft of padding in favor of durability. Above each seat was a single equipment locker, within which arms and equipment, dust clips, discarded or broken armor plates, grenades, radios, and other military grade equipment could be occasionally glimpsed, all arranged with surgical precision. Some of the lockers had a name engraved beneath them on a shiny brass plaque, "Dallas", "Farrel", "Kine", and "Moon", to name a few, and though those seated beneath those names were not the only occupants of the rumbling beast's iron belly, they were easily the most notable.
Corporal Warren Dallas was the least of the named riders in stature, only in that he was slightly bookish, as well as rather unremarkable with his cool blue eyes and side parted brown hair, and he wore a uniform that matched the more common soldiers that sat on either side of him, but his gold framed reading glasses, polished silver sidearm that possessed a barrel as long as the muzzle of an assault rifle, and commendation medals arranged straight and square on his left lapel in numbers too numerous to count, set him far above the others in both rank and apparent station. He was currently rereading the event itinerary, as well as scouting reports, and attendance accounts, for what must have been the dozenth time since boarding the flying APC.
Specialist Rhett Farrel's choice of dress, while apparently military in nature, perhaps finding origin from some hedge estate or small time Mistral militia, immediately set him apart from the bookish corporal that he sat across from. Both his flack jacket, and cargo pants, each of which overflowing with the suggestions of munitions and ordinance, bore a digital camouflage pattern that resembled the "dazzle" patterns used on archaic military vehicles to baffle visual scanners in times long gone, that had fallen out of style since the advent of radar and thermal imaging. The pattern on the jacket was divided down the center, where it went from black and white to black and yellow as it passed his median, and on the pants the colors were reversed, thus affording the man's body an eye-jarring quality that was a mess of jagged lines and clashing colors that alluded to the motley of a court jester. Ironically, while the designs might have been influenced by camouflage, the effect was to make him quite eye-catching. In shape he was very lean, and though of average height he had a willowy frame that made him seem as if he'd been stretched out, which was further emphasized by his narrow and angular features, slightly upturned eyes and long pointed nose. Rhett was currently worrying a strip of salted beef between his teeth, which like the rest of him were long and pointed, as his absurdly bright red beret dangled loosely from one of the two twitching fox ears that rested atop his head.
Private Kine First Class, was the lowest ranking of the named riders, but hardly the least. A giant of a man, hunched fully over to avoid striking his head against the equipment lockers which cleared the heads of others present by three feet or more, and occupying two of the wide bucket seats with his incredible mass. He was decked from head to foot in sheets of dust tempered metal and composite, over high tensile strength woven fiber, beneath which resided a core of solid muscle and bone like the steel frame of a suspension bridge. A literal giant, that could barricade the gate to a castle by himself, he sat as rigid as a statue with a greatsword the width and height of an average man laid across thighs like tree trunks, as hands that could swallow a man's head whole and still have width to spare caressed the razor edge with a whetstone. A face as broad and blocky as a cliff, as if hewn from solid stone, punctuated with a cross shaped scar that converged upon the bridge of his nose and diagonally quadresected his face, was framed by ghost white hair that was tied back in a single shock, as eyes of a similarly unbroken milky hue seemed to stare ahead unblinkingly. Apart from the monolithic blade, the albino titan bore no other equipment, save a full helmet that was fashioned of a single solid sheet of polished silver, unbroken by a single rivet or even eye slits.
The last of the named men was the youngest of the four, and bore no rank, save a nickname that might have seemed humorous to any who did not know him personally, or were unaware of his reputation. Solomon-Daton Moon, Son of Terrel-Daton Moon, CEO and Lord Commander of Moon Military Contractors, "The One-Eyed Dragon", sat slightly slouched, hands locked together in his lap, as he swayed back and forth in time to the rhythmic beating of the bullhead's massive dual engines. A single eye, the vacant socket of it's neighbor covered by a rondel that had once been the disc guard of a Faunus arming sword, stared ahead at the featureless floor of the cabin with a shocking intensity that was only compounded by that of it's striking golden hue. Despite being garbed from head to toe in a uniform fit for parade, that being high collared waistcoat whose tails fell past his waist that was made of the finest blue silks, baring an intricately stylized version of his family crest, none other than the fractured celestial body of Remnant itself between his shoulder blades, rendered in silver and golden tread with such painstaking detail so that it seemed that every crack and fragment of the captured image my explode apart at any second, framed with sleeves perfectly tailored to hug the thickly muscled arms within and accented with twin dragons coiling around his forearms, blue on the left red on the right, legged serpents' crests set with sapphires and rubies respectively, all over a lacquered breastplate treated with blue dust that gave the metal a pulsating blue sheen that seemed to shift with currents in the air, the young man looked more soldier than noble. His powerful features, wide lips full lips, pronounced jaw, bold nose and noble brow seemed perpetually set with a determined scowl, that better suited a man taking cover in a trench and preparing to go up and over than they did a young lord preparing to make his appearance at one of the largest tournaments in Remnant. Truth be told, Solomon did not seem much of a difference between the two.
"About half a click out, boss." Came a voice over the vehicle's internal PA-system, "Adder and Raven have eyes on the landing zone. Making our approach, it's gonna get bumpy. Raven reports a few individuals of interest at the L-Z, wearing red, the scanners couldn't tell if they were armed, too much interference from the other contestants and their weapons."
Sol looked up from the white dress gloves that covered his massive hands, instinctively seeking out the cool blue gaze of MMC's Vice President. Dallas was already glaring back at him, the expression he wore somewhere between frustration and grim acceptance. Dallas rarely got angry with Solomon anymore, it only added to the already backbreaking stress of his role as both administrator and handler to one of Atlas' most infamously incendiary high-profiles, but he was close right now, and the level tone with which he addressed the young lord would have been frenzied yelling coming from the lips of a less composed man.
"I warned you of this Solomon, how do you think it's going to look if there is another incident on the opening day of the tournament? Is that what you want? To antagonize these people? What other reason could you have for insisting you do this in person." the bookish man inquired with icy disdain, as he folded the reports and itineraries in his lap and adjusted his uniform, a blue and grey number which matched perfectly the functional garb of an Atlesian Marine, which it was.
Sol did not answer, instead, as the bullhead began to rock, shaken by the turbulence of making it's descent, as sixty feet of weaponized flying steel, completely with a crew of dozens, armed to the rafters with particle weapons and ballistics, screamed towards the airstrip in front of the stadium lobby, he rose from his seat, barely seeming to notice the floor of the flying titan bucking beneath him as an earsplitting wail of counter-proulsion systems roared to life to control the rate of their approach filled the cabin like the death wail of a Nevermore. Reaching into the locker above his seat and he withdrew from it his weapon. What had once been the weapon of a Faunus officer during the great Faunus rebellion, the single edged, slightly curved katana was four feet long from pommel to tip, face a metal of the darkest pitch broken by the spiraling glyphs of dust channels carved into the tang by hand, currently empty, the spine of the sword reinforced with overlapping articulated scales of fire dust treated ceramic. With his other hand he produced the vessel of that profane edge, a scabbard composed of red scales to match those upon the sword, surrounding a faintly translucent blue core that was perpetually covered in a thin layer of frost, the mouth of which stylized to resemble the mouth of a roaring serpent, spearheaded tongue lashing out.
Sol slid the blade into it's vessel and turned to lock eyes with Dallas as he spoke in a voice that was the dull rumble of an avalanche, or the growl of a volcano on the verge of eruption. Uttering the motto of his noble line, the words of his house.
"Take what you want, and pay for it."
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With a blast of wind the equivalent of a monsoon gale, enough to make most cover their eyes from the stinging assault of grit cast up by the buffeting gusts, and to make those nearest the landing zone run from cover, the bullhead, a flying monolith of sleek black metal with fins that bore equal resembles to swords and the fins of massive sharks, swooped in to dock as if intent on ramming the congregations of competitors and spectators, only stopping at the last moment as six turbines aligned along the port and starboard sides fired in unison and ejected a converging collumn of fire that cushioned the descending bulk of the craft enough for the anti-grav turbines to kick in and fasten the warship in the air, hovering like a tyreme moored at a pier. Like the parting jaws of a gargantuan bird of prey, the landing ramp yawned open, and spilled a small battalion of armed soldiers, all human or faunus, as MMC did not employ or utilize drones, in form fitting blue and grey riot gear onto the landing strip, who began taking up positions, weapons raised towards the crowds of stunned onlookers as the primary escort began travelling down the ramp. Kine had point, like a sea bound icebreaker, driving the crowd aside by the sheer force of his tower presence, which placed him shoulders above even the tallest in the crowd, followed closely by Rhett who was amusing himself by juggling four bowie knives as he marched along behind the giant with such perfect synchronization that it seemed their joints were joined by invisible threads. Behind the curious pair, standing shoulder to shoulder in a locked step as precise as that of the other two, Solomon and Dallas made the rear, as a small force of the surround force detached to escort the four towards their destination, that being the sign in desk.
As the initial shock of the ostentatious entrance wore off, the crowd began to murmur with curiosity and anticipation, as worried whispers spread from one ear to the next. "Moon, it's Solomon Moon." or, "The One-Eyed Dragon", and among a few in tones much more deliberate and harsh, "The Boreas Lake Butcher"... That whisper rose into something resembling a cheer from some, mostly Atlesians who approved of the Moon's and their role in ending the open conflict between faunus tribals and mantle citizens in years gone, while others who rightly felt that the Moon's served as an unwelcome reminder of tensions between Faunus and Human, a relic of a fascist government, jeered just as loudly, albeit while avoiding the direct gaze of any of those armed soldiers. The tension in the air could have been cut with a knife, as the polarizing affect of the appearance of a single young man served to jagged divide the crowd down lines of morals and politics as surely as if the Faunus war had never ended.
Meanwhile, the focus of that attention, one seventeen year old young man, who had been born sickly and grown into a major player in the power structure of an entire kingdom, seemed to notice it no more than a lion might notice the grass as he stalked through it, gaze set on an entirely different prey. Truth be told however, despite how cool he appeared on the surface, inside he was coiled up like a spring, like a hammer drawn back and ready to fall on a blasting cap, ready to leap into any direction, despite the fact that in such a dense crowd he could as easily be leaping towards friend or foe without any way to tell which it was until it was too late. He was vulnerable, and he knew it, and so did the soldiers that surrounded him, and they seemed to feed off the tension in the crowd, as each step further in, and each step further from the sanctuary of the hovering bullhead, saw each soldier clinging more tightly to his raised rifle.
As they reached the grand entryway, the procession ground to a halt, as passage became barred by a dozen figures, garbed from head to toe in red fabric. Above their head's held aloft were picket signs that stood in silent defamation of the approaching host. "We are not animals.", "End Faunus oppression.", and "Faunus Lives Matter" were just a few of the statements those plaques bore, and SOl tried not to look too closely at them as he and his men drew a collective breath in preparation for what would come next.
"Move aside! Make way." Rhett called into the blockade from behind the bulwark of armored flesh that was Kine, it having already been agreed that he would deal with any trouble makers first, because he had the best way with people, and as a faunus himself, might be able to assuage some hostilities via nothing more than solidarity.
"Make way for him? Never!" A woman, the defacto leadeer of this rabble from the severity of her voice and the way she seemed to reply as naturally as Rhett had, as if it had already been decided that she would speak for the rest, though the appearance of a motley faunus in Moon's service did cause muttered curses of "traitor" and the like to bubble up from the rest, "This tournament is a celebration of the cooperation between our nations. It is no place for a facist attack dog like Solomon Moon! Are you going to betray your own blood and deny it? Are you going to speak for a murderer who is too much a coward to defend himself?"
"Now see here..." Rhett began, but was cut off as a cool hand fell upon his shoulder and squeezed as tenderly as a vice.
"It's fine Rhett, I'll handle this." Sol said grimly, his voice merely the smoldering of a forest fire, as apposed to the blaze that he felt in his chest as he slipped past the titanic girth of Kine and placed himself before the protest speaker.
Sol studied the woman, and it did not take him long to recognize the general appearance of her. A stern face of middle years, tempered but many nights and days of hardships, she might have been pretty in a matronly way if not for how grief and anguish had stripped her expression of any emotion save contempt and for how many tears shed had left her gaze dry and cold. Sol knew the face well, though not her's specifically, as he had seen many who had lost loved ones in skirmishes against his forces, and there was no doubt in his mind that this woman had buried a loved one, and rightly or not, blamed him for it.
"What was his name? Was he your son? Brother? Husband?" Sol inquired, employing the total sum of his courage to keep his voice from trembling as he dared to ask such a thing.
The stunned silence that the question inflicted upon the speaker lasted only a moment, and he face filled with fury as understanding dawned and she yelled at him, long lapine ears laid back flat against the top of her head. "SOLOMON MOON MURDERED MY SON! MY SON WAS AT DURRAN KEEP WHEN HE AND HIS BAND OF CUTTHROATS CAME FOR BEAR PITCHWOOD. PETER WAS A GOOD BOY!" She declared as if passing judgment upon a convicted criminal, voice rising so that the enire congregation of onlookers could hear the accusation clearly, "I HAD TO IDENTIFY THE BODY! I SAW WHAT HE DID TO MY BOY! BURNED HIM ALIVE! THE LAST TIME I SAW MY SON HE HAD A HAND PRINT BURNED INTO HIS FACE! SO DEEP THAT I COULD SEE BONE, BUT I COULD STILL SEE THE FEAR IN HIS EYES!" She jabbed a finger towards Sol, stabbing at a chest where she was certain no heart beat, "IT WAS HIS HAND THAT BURNED MY BOY! NOW THIS MURDERER, THIS BUTCHER, THINKS HE CAN REPRESENT ATLAS AT THESE GAMES! HOW DARE HE?!"
As if on cue, a unified cry of "Butcher" rose from the others of the blood stained protestors, and at once Sol understood who the woman was. He even knew who he son had been. He too had seen the fear in Peter's eyes, lower jaw burned away to ash, throat burned shut as he gasped out his death rattle. It was an image he would never forget, and at first that memory had seemed as real as if he'd been there storming the walls of that keep all over again. It was the repeating chant of the name that Faunus across Atlas had given him, just as those in the polarized crowd began to join in, making it seem as if the accusation were coming from all sides that finally snapped him back to reality, and like a golden auger his gaze fastened to the protestor. He was in the open, and surrounded on all sides, a nightmare scenario, a kill box, he had to get himself and his men to cover, and the only way to do that was to draw the enemy into the open and break their line.
"I remember your son." Sol said quietly, causing the protestor, former mother, to lean in close and sneer at him, as if to verify the insult, expression turning from griefstricken fury to outright rage as he continued, "I remember being attacked by a rabid animal as I climbed the walls of Durran keep, so I put it down. The last thing he did was soil himself. You must be ashamed."
Disbelief caused the color to drain from the rabbit faunus' face, and as understanding filled her for what she was hearing, so too did her face flush a red as deep as her blouse, as every aspect of her countenance became that of fury.
"YOU BASTARD!" She wailed, as tears blinded her and sorrow choked her voice, and mindlessly, aimlessly, she clawed at the the one eyed man, striking him open handed across the face with the full strength of her arm, hard enough to make Sol's ears ring and to drive him to his knees, as they buckled beneath him.
The woman was going to continue seeking her vengence and wound up for another blow, just as her fellow protesters were shocked out of their stupor by the viciousness of the assault and those on either side of her began trying to hold the destraught faunus back before she could condemn them all with her actions, but it was already too late. Sol had them where he wanted them. They had over extended, through lack of discipline, and now they would be routed. Kine did not step past the kneeling form of his lord as much as he did simply step over him, and with a lazy swing of his mailed fist, he knocked all three of the protesters sprawling, before clutching the collars of those standing on either side of the three in either hand and wrenching them out towards the crowd.
"MOVE!" Sol yelled as he sprang to his feet and through the gap provided by his ogre of a bodyguard.
Dallas, Rhett, and the small contingent of troops filed through with the same urgency one might expect of soldiers diving for cover beneath a barrage of artillery, as the crowd behind them erupted with damning decries of the proceeding events, calling for blood and cheering the actions of both sides in nearly equal measure. The seed of a riot had been sown into the crowd, and for one reason of another the gathered mass was turning violent, as a tide of people surged towards the entryway in a bid to catch Solomon and his party, as private security began making their way towards the street, only to be met by a wall of roiling humanity that resisted all attempts to pass. The PA system urged the crowd to remain calm, and to disperse, but was summarily muted entirely by the shouts and cries of a thousand voices drowning in the chaos.
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