Post by White Mimic on Dec 31, 2015 18:24:09 GMT -5
“Get…” Pierce was panting, trying his best to not immediately retaliate against Syph’s slamming into his side. He was desperately rationalizing it as an accident, staying his hand from just slamming her into the floor like his last victim, but his seething rage still boiled away in his eyes. “…out of MY WAY!” His webbed hand firmly grabbed the side of her shoulder and pushed her a little more to the side, enough room for him to pass. He wasn’t paying attention to how hard he pushed, nor did he check to see if he had accidentally shoved his friend over, or worse, toss her into the wolves. He was of a singular goal and Syph was unfortunately secondary to it. Perhaps if he had heard what she said, he wouldn’t have been so momentarily callous.
Striding past his friend with his longer legs, Pierce stepped briskly towards and into the mob of slavers separating him from the backstage. Several backed away as he approached, and some even turned tail and ran, or at least decided to get away so they could focus on the sword wielding girl first. Others were less fearful of the great venomous ‘beast’ within their grasp. Poor dipsticks couldn’t tell when to leave well enough alone.
The first one came from behind, as soon as the fishman had made it past the first row of guards. He had a polearm, leapt in the air like some sort of ninja and thought he’d stab the lionfish in the back. Pierce didn’t take kindly to such a gesture, and made sure to illustrate his disdain for all to get the picture. Apparently, the first casualty hadn’t been a strong enough example. He reeled around quickly, pivoting on the balls of his feet. The blade of the polearm whizzed past his back, stabbing into the floor with a soft padded THOK, but the wielder had been removed from the weapon directly after its impact. The backside of the fishman’s palm, slammed into the assailant’s jaw, pounding blood and spittle from the poor sod’s lips before sending him flying across the room.
Many of the others saw this as an opportunity to stick Pierce while he wasn’t paying attention, some were acting out of instinctive retaliation for their brethren struck down by such a lowly despicable creature. They leapt into action too quickly, however. The palm followed through past where the polearm wielder’s head once was and the fishman saw the sword coming just behind his right side. As his hand swung back around, he grabbed the wrist of whomever was holding the blade and his arms kept going. He swung the slaver around, knocking down all the others who had made the similar mistake of getting too close. Some fell back into the crowd, others FLEW back, the lionfish wasn’t keeping track who was where. When a circle as wide as the man he had been swinging was carved out of the thin mass of people, Pierce swung the man around once more and tossed him up towards the ceiling, slamming a well embossed imprint into the molding.
As he continued towards the stage, Pierce’s memory of what he was doing became fuzzy, blurry. Every so often, he could realize what he was doing: grabbing a man’s head and crashing it into the floor, slamming his heel into someone’s side, a pain in his leg, that sort of thing. The last thing he remembered doing before finding himself at the foot of the stage was holding the front of a slaver’s shirt so he couldn’t get away and pounding his own forehead into the bridge of his victim’s. He hastily stepped up onto the stage, desperately looking around for a break in the curtain where he could make his way back. Behind him, slavers were lying everywhere, draped over chairs, knocked out, stuck in holes that they’re own bodies had been used to make. A few of them had been especially unlucky, writhing around on the floor clutching at perforation wounds and screaming, begging for the pain to stop.
Pierce himself had accumulated a few bruises and cuts, with two especially nasty cuts on his left leg and right bicep. A few flecks of blood had been splattered up on his face, decorating a black eye he had gotten somehow, but he wasn’t sure how much of it was his if any at all. At the very least, he was fairly certain none of the blood staining the quills of his fins was his. In an almost trance like state, he slowly made his way along the curtain, past the jolly roger with the blond afro and disco ball sunglasses that he had only just noticed. As he stepped into the dark behind the curtain, he looked around, almost sleepy, rubbing his head as if nursing a migraine he had picked up in a bad dream.